_In the Fumoir._--Two drearily undecided men trying to make up their minds where to go next. Shall they stay at Antwerp for a day or two, or go over to Brussels, or go back to Calais and stay there, or _what_? "Calais is on their way _home_, anyhow," says one, and the other, without attempting to deny this, thinks "there may be more to _see_ at Brussels." "Not more than there is here," says his friend: "all these places much about the same." "Well," says the first, yawning, "shall we stay where we _are_?" "Just as _you_ please," says the other. "No; but what would _you_ rather do?" ... "Me? oh, I'm entirely in _your_ hands!" First man, who has had Green Chartreuse with his coffee and seems snappish, annoyed at this, and says, "it's dam nonsense going on like that." "Oh," says the second, "then you leave it to _me_--is _that_ it?" "Haven't I been saying so all along!" growls the other. Second Undecided Man silent for a time, evidently forcing himself to come to a decision of some sort. At last he looks up with relief. "_Well_," he says, very slowly, "what do _you_ think about it?" Whereupon they begin all over again. This indecision is catching--leave them. _In the Street--about_ 11:30 P.M.--Back from Variety Theatre. Hotel doors closed. Have rung several times--no result at present. Curious impression that I shall be hauled up before a Dean or somebody for this to-morrow and fined or gated. Wish they'd let me in--chilly out here. _Is_ there a night-porter? If not--awkward. Carillon again from Cathedral tower. Ghost has managed to recollect a whole tune at last, picking it out with one finger. Seem to have heard it before--what the Dickens _is_ it? Recognise it as the "Mandolinata in E." Remember the VOKES Family dancing to it long ago in the Drury Lane Pantomime. Not exactly the tune one would expect to meet in a Cathedral.... Unbolting behind doors. Nervous feeling. Half inclined to assure Porter penitently that this shall not occur again. Wish him good-night instead--pleasantly. Porter grunts--_un_pleasantly. Depressing to be grunted at the last thing at night. To bed, chastened. * * * * * THE MOAN OF THE MUSIC-HALL MUSE. [It is hinted that the vogue of the tremendously successful but tyrannously ubiquitous "_Ta-ra-ra-Boom-de-ay!_" is beginning, at last, to wane.] _She museth upon "the Boom that waneth every day," and wondering what she shall "star" with next, breaketh forth into familiar strains:--_ [Illustration] AIR--"_What will you do, Love?_" What shall I do now? My song was going Like a tide flowing, all Booms beyond; What shall I do, though, when critics hide it, And cads deride it who're now so fond? "Ta-ra-ra" chiding, "Boom-de-ay" deriding!-- Nought is abiding--that's sadly true! I'll pray for another Sensation Notion. With deep emotion--that's what I'll do!