Mrs Gloring. No. Perhaps the Rishi makes it beat.
Lord Fondleton. Dear Mrs Gloring, you are the Rishi for whom—
Mrs Gloring. Hush!
Lady Fritterly. There, it is getting louder,
like distant artillery, and yet so near. Oh, Mr Drygull, what a wonderful man the Rishi must be!
Drygull. Yes; he knew that at this hour to-day I should need an illustration of his power, and he is kindly furnishing us with one. This is an experience which I think our friend over there [looking towards Mr Germsell] would find it difficult to classify.
Germsell. Fussle, have the goodness to step here for a moment—[points to a woman beating a carpet in the back-yard of an adjoining house]. That is the tom-tom in the Himalayas they are listening to.
Fussle. Well, now, do you know, I don’t feel quite sure of that. I was certainly conscious of a sort of internal hearing of something when you called me, which was not that; it was as though I had fiddlestrings in my head and somebody was beginning to strum upon them.
Germsell. Fiddlestrings indeed—say rather fiddlesticks. I am surprised at a sensible man like yourself listening to such nonsense.
Fussle [testily]. It is much greater nonsense for you to tell me I don’t hear something I do hear, than for me to hear something you can’t