Pellagia, an old and almost forgotten ailment, caused by bad bread and rotten food, has reappeared in most of the country places where the food is worst. Some cases are really pathetic. A doctor who is managing a hospital near Courtrai told me that it is impossible to get the good, healthy food indispensable in illness. Some cases of lemons and oranges for the Belgian hospitals which were specially allowed through the Italian frontier, in spite of the exportation bills, have been seized by the Germans. Generally, German people and German hospitals in Belgium manage to get the very best food; the native inhabitants have to be content with what remains. To eat, I will not say good, but passable bread, for instance, one must go to one of the establishments regarded as "safe" by the Germans, one of the establishments where the Germans feed, where they can do what they like and drink Munich beer. Such places are allowed to keep open an hour longer than the others. German people have monopolised the fashionable restaurants, teashops, and best hotels in the town. The Belgian population has completely given up going into such establishments, and patronise only certain others which manage, more or less, to keep the Germans away. The famous Café des Augustins, on the Boulevard Anspach, the manager of which has been plucky and clever enough to do so without giving the Government a pretext for shutting up the place, has crossed from his lists all German wines, liqueurs, and mineral waters. As the German Government has stopped the production of Belgian beer, in order to be able to send the stored oats and hops to Munich and to Pilsen, and to favour the sale of German beer in Belgium at fairly high prices, no more beer is sold in the establishment. In the other restaurants, the Germanised ones, the new masters drink beer and champagne, sing, shout, and discuss the war. All the smart tea-places of the capital like Matisse, the Palace, etc., have been monopolised by the German officers, and a lady will not visit them for anything on earth. "Ah non pas là; il y a trop de Boches!" declares a Bruxelloise invited to visit such a place. It is really a trying time for a lady in Brussels, as well as all over Belgium. The German officers do not think it too base a thing to look up in the Kommandantur books the names of the young women whose husbands are either at the front or in a concentration camp in Germany; and then a real hunting campaign begins, generally ended by the lady leaving her own house and going to stay with relatives or friends. The German officer's way of paying attentions to a lady varies from following her about in the most persistent manner to sending her bouquets of flowers, and even to operating day and night perquisition of her house under some easily-found excuse, or without pretext at all.