_Drygull_. I can more easily understand that the conclusions arrived at by men of science should be limited, than that the experience of humanity should be confined by those conclusions; but I fail to perceive why those philosophers should deny the existence of certain human faculties, because they don't happen to possess them themselves. I think I know a Rishi who can produce experiences which would scatter all their conclusions to the winds, when the whole system which is built upon them would collapse. _Mrs Gloring_ [_aside to_ Lord Fondleton]. Pray, Lord Fondleton, can you tell me what a Rishi is? _Lord Fondleton_. A man who has got into higher states, you know--what I heard Mr Drygull call a transcendentalist the other day, whatever that may be. I don't understand much about these matters myself, but I take it he is a sort of evolved codger. _Mrs Allmash_. Oh, how awfully interesting! Dear Mr Drygull, do tell us some of the extraordinary things the Rishi can do. _Drygull_. If you will only all of you listen attentively, and if Mr Germsell will have the goodness to modify to some degree the prejudiced attitude of mind common to all men of science, you will hear him as plainly as I can at this moment beating a tom-tom in his cottage in the Himalayas. [Mr Germsell _gets up impatiently_, _and walks to the other end of the back drawing-room_. _Drygull_ [_casting a compassionate glance after him_]. Perhaps it is better so. Now please, Lady Fritterly, I must request a few moments of the most profound silence on the part of all. You will not hear the sound as though coming from a distance, but it will seem rather like a muffled drumming taking place inside your head, scarcely perceptible at first, when its volume will gradually increase. _Lord Fondleton_ [_aside to_ Mrs Gloring]. Some bad champagne produced the same phenomenon in my head last night. _Lady Fritterly_ [_severely_]. Hush! Lord Fondleton. [_There is a dead silence for some minutes_. _Mrs Gloring_ [_excitedly_]. Oh, I hear it! It is something like a woodpecker inside of one. _Drygull_. Not a word, my dear madam, if you please. _Lady Fritterly_ [_after a long pause_]. I imagine I hear a very faint something; there it goes--boom, boom, boom--at the back of my tympanum. _Lord Fondleton_. That's not like a woodpecker. _Mrs Gloring_. No; it seems to me more like tic-tic-tic. _Mrs Allmash_. How too tiresome! I can't hear anything. I suppose it is on account of the rumble of the carriages. _Lord Fondleton_ [_whispers to_ Mrs Gloring]. I hear something inside of me; do you know what? _Mrs Gloring_. No; what? _Lord Fondleton_. The beating of my own heart. Can't you guess for whom? _Mrs Gloring_. No. Perhaps the Rishi makes it beat. _Lord Fondleton_. Dear Mrs Gloring, you are the Rishi for whom-- _Mrs Gloring_. Hush!