When, therefore, there comes a "turn" which purports to be classical poses, the effect is blasphemous rather than ludicrous. The spectacle of thick-painted whores clutching clumsily at the spirit of Greek motion and Greek suspension-of-motion, with their lewd simperings and vulgar disproportion of bust, is repellent. At the critical moment someone giggles in the wings and the goddess baulks. The orchestra swells to cover the gaping _hiatus_ which no improvisation can bridge. The Salome-dance and the _ballet_ are quite other things. They perform them here to perfection. Their temperament provides the _abandon_ without which such turns fall stodgy. But classical poses? No!--hardly that! A French audience in war-time clamours for a military turn or two; and gets them. There's a scene from the trenches presented with a convincing sort of realism--from the death of a comrade to the exchange of fornicatory ribaldries and the pursuit of vermin. Asphyxiation is effected, not by the enemy, but by the corporal's removing his boots. The humour is broad and killing. Shrieking applause drowns half the repartee. Judged by the accompanying gesture, some obviously good things are missed. The delivery of the mail under the parapet, and its perusal, leave little doubt as to the proper function of _la bonne marraine_--the fair unknown correspondent acquired by advertisement. Then there is a turn military which discloses the nature of the friendly encounters between the _Poilu_ and the girls of the village through which he is passing. There is some really good singing. And there is always a song in English, delivered with a naïve crudity of pronunciation, to which the English soldiers respond at the chorus with allied fervour. "The Only Girl," "Who were you with Last Night?" "Here we are Again," are the favourites.