Ranji-Banji-Singh threw back his head, made with his clasped hands a gesture as if warding off something, and smiling disdainfully, said, in broken English:
"Theosophists not mediums. Mediums is organ-grinders—theosophist, composer. Medium-tricks stand low;—street-jugglery for gold. Theosophist and Yogi can everything, all the same—can much more, but not show. That is meanness, unworthiness!"
The slender brown hand was shaken in Johannes' face, in an endeavor to express its owner's contempt, while the dark face of the East-Indian took on an expression of one compelled to drink something bitter.
That was too much for Johannes. Feeling himself misunderstood by the only one upon whom he cared to make a good impression, he said, angrily:
"I never perform tricks, sir. I exhibit nothing. I am not a medium."
"Not by profession—not a professional medium," said Countess Dolores, to save the situation.
"Then you do not practise table-tilting, nor slate-writing, nor flower-showering?" asked the East-Indian, while his face cleared.
"No, sir! Nothing whatever!" said Johannes, emphatically.
"If I had known that!" exclaimed Lady Crimmetart, while her eyes seemed almost rolling out of her head. "But, Mr. Singh, can you not, just for this one time, show us something? Let us see something wonderful? A spinning tambourine, or a violin that plays of itself? Do, now! When we ask you so pleadingly, and when I look at you so fondly! Come!"
And she cast sheep's eyes at Mr. Ranji-Banji-Singh in a manner which did not in the least arouse Johannes' envy.