The German waiters of the Palace, the Metropole, the Cecil, and all other big hotels in Brussels appear to have been working their very best for the Fatherland before the war began. Now they have left their humble jobs, thrown away their mask, and found new employment with the central police. In Brussels there are any number of such people, who now carry themselves proudly with a white, black, and red armlet and a pistol-case bulging beneath their coats on the left hip. Very few motor-cars are seen in the streets, and during my stay of more than a week I did not see a single car driven by a civilian. The petrol question seems to have become extremely serious. All the motor garages are closed, and it is impossible to obtain the spirit at any price, not only in large quantities, but even in small bottles from a chemist's shop. This accounts for the boom in acetylene lamps and carbide. New large shops selling these goods have opened all over the country. In most villages gas and electric light have been cut off, and this is the only means of obtaining any light. Here, again, Brussels has very special treatment. The town at night is as full of light as usual--probably because the Germans know perfectly well that if the Allies should attempt an air attack they would almost certainly damage the civilian population more than the occupiers. Very often, in the daytime, a Zeppelin will appear over the town; people are so used to the sight that they take little or no notice. To sum up: the Brussels population has become accustomed very quickly to the new situation. Nobody seems to mind the incessant rumble of the guns in the distance, nor the food scarcity and high prices, nor the abnormal life of the town. Nor the lack of amusements. I have said some theatres are open; they are, but only for the Germans. The Belgian people refuse to go to them for two good reasons. They do not want to mix with the Germans, and they do not think it right to enjoy themselves when their country is reduced to such pitiful conditions and their King and the remnants of his army are fighting on the last bit of Belgian soil. For the Germans there are even music-hall shows and dances, and, with that beautiful sense of tradition which, according to Nietzsche, is one of the secrets of German clumsiness, even the decrepit institution of Tango Teas is still kept alive. And there the Hun stuffs himself with more champagne and costly food. At ten miles' distance from Brussels the inhabitants of Forest have been rationed at half a pound of brown bread per head. * * *