when he sees it he can find it in almost any situation. After the first
Zeppelin attack the management of the St. Antoine fitted up
bedrooms in the cellars.

A century or more ago the St. Antoine was not a hotel but a
monastery, and its cellars are all that the cellars of a monastery
ought to be--thick-walled and damp and musty. Yet these
subterranean suites were in as great demand among the
diplomatists as are tables in the palm-room of the Savoy during the
season. From my bedroom window, which overlooked the court, I
could see apprehensive guests cautiously emerging from their cellar
chambers in the early morning. It reminded me of woodchucks
coming out of their holes.

As the siege progressed and the German guns were pushed nearer
to the city, those who lived in what might be termed "conspicuous"
localities began to seek other quarters.

"I'm going to change hotels to-day," I heard a man remark to a
friend.

"Why?" inquired the other.

"Because I am within thirty yards of the cathedral," was the answer.
The towering spire of the famous cathedral is, you must understand,
the most conspicuous thing in Antwerp--on clear days you can see it
from twenty miles away--and to live in its immediate vicinity during a
bombardment of the city was equivalent to taking shelter under the
only tree in a field during a heavy thunderstorm.