The little Belgian informed her that if they were quiet so much the
worse. They were finding their range.

She thought: We were safe enough before, but--

"Supposing," she said, "they alter their range?"

"They won't alter it just for the fun of killing us. They haven't
spotted the batteries yet. It's the batteries they're trying for, not
the street."

But the little Belgian went on protesting.

"What's the matter with him?"

"He's getting a bit jumpy," she said, "that's all."

"Tell him to buck up. Tell him it's all right."

She translated. The little Belgian shook his head, mournfully persistent.
"Monsieur," he said, "didn't know."

"Oh yes, he does know."

It was absurd of the little man to suppose you didn't know, when
the noise of the French guns told them how near they were to the
enemy's target.

She tried not to listen to him. His mutterings broke up the queer
stillness that held her after she had heard the guns. It was only by