peeping up at any moment over the station roof, and so we skirted the square.  Arras was fought for in the early stages of the war; two lines of sand-bagged breastworks still run obliquely through the station; one is where the porters used to put luggage upon cabs and one runs the length of the platform.  The station was a fine one of the modern type, with a glass roof whose framework still remains, though the glass powders the floor and is like a fine angular gravel underfoot.  The rails are rails of rust, and cornflowers and mustard and tall grasses grow amidst the ballast.  The waiting-rooms have suffered from a shell or so, but there are still the sofas of green plush, askew, a little advertisement hung from the wall, the glass smashed.  The ticket bureau is as if a giant had scattered a great number of tickets, mostly still done up in bundles, to Douai, to Valenciennes, to Lens and so on.  These tickets are souvenirs too portable to resist.  I gave way to that common weakness.

I went out and looked up and down the line; two deserted goods trucks stood as if they sheltered under a footbridge.  The grass poked out through their wheels.  The railway signals seemed uncertain in their intimations; some were up and some were down.  And it was as still and empty as a summer afternoon in Pompeii.  No train has come into Arras for two long years now.

We lunched in a sunny garden with various men who love Arras but are weary of it, and we disputed about Irish politics.  We discussed the political future of Sir F. E. Smith.  We also disputed whether there was an equivalent in English for embusque. Every now and then a shell came over—­an aimless shell.

A certain liveliness marked our departure from the town.  Possibly the Germans also listen for the rare infrequent automobile.  At any rate, as we were just starting our way back—­it is improper to mention the exact point from which we started—­came “Pheeee—–­woooo.”  Quite close.  But there was no Bang! One’s mind hung expectant and disappointed.  It was a dud shell.

And then suddenly I became acutely aware of the personality of our chauffeur.  It was not his business to talk to us, but he turned his head, showed a sharp profile, wry lips and a bright excited eye, and remarked, “That was a near one—­anyhow.”  He then cut a corner over the pavement and very nearly cut it through a house.  He bumped us over a shell hole and began to toot his horn.  At every gateway, alley, and cross road on this silent and empty streets of Arras and frequently in between, he tooted punctiliously. (It is not proper to sound motor horns in Arras.) I cannot imagine what the listening Germans made of it.  We passed the old gates of that city of fear, still tooting vehemently, and then with shoulders eloquent of his feelings, our chauffeur abandoned the horn altogether and put his whole soul into the accelerator....

3

Soissons was in very much the same case as Arras.  There was the same pregnant silence in her streets, the same effect of waiting for the moment which draws nearer and nearer, when the brooding German lines away there will be full of the covert activities of retreat, when the streets of the old town will stir with the joyous excitement of the conclusive advance.