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....


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