"It is true," said his mind deep inside him; "it is true that all things are illusion! I have sometimes suspected it. We are a mode of motion; we are affections of the ether. I believe Professor Osborne Reynolds is right. I am a kind of vortex spinning in piled grains of ether. Bob is a vortex. We are in a vortex. We are straws in ether; we are shadows. I have a real non-existent pain in my real imaginary non-existent stomach. I am not alive and I am not dead. I am brave; I am a coward; I am a bishop. This is very wonderful. I shall preach about it when I return to earth. Is that a hedge? Did I see a cow?—a strange, elongated, horned, lowing, permanent, impermanent possibility of sensation and milk in a field made of matter, which is energy, which is an illusion. I become calm; motion is relative. I almost enjoy it. I become a Hegelian. I see that being equals non-being; that pain becomes pleasure if you only have enough of it. I no longer pity those who suffer sufficiently. There is apparently too little pain in the universe. Torquemada did his best to remedy it. Oh, was that a dog? I quite enjoy myself. I wonder if he can go faster. If he can, I wish he would. We are going slow, too slow!" And, as Geordie’s dust showed up much nearer, Bob put his car again at the third speed, and the bishop gasped. "How do you like it?" asked Bob, as they spun through Spalding. The bishop’s face was a fine glowing crimson; his bloodshot eyes glittered like opals; he was intoxicated with movement and with new lights on philosophy. "I—I should like to go a thousand miles an hour at night," said the bishop. "I think it is wonderful, Bob. Are you Bob, and I a bishop? Where is Spilsborough? Is there a Spilsborough?" "Steady on!" said Bob. "I say, you’re excited!" "I am," replied the bishop. "I am excited; I feel peculiar. I think I can originate a new philosophy. Why are we doing this?" "We are trying to find out where Penelope is," said Bob. "Penelope, Penelope," said the bishop. "Penelope is a vortex. Yes, she is a vortex. Men and women are vortices. I shall study mathematics and apply it to theology." "Hello!" said Bob, and he stopped almost dead. For Geordie’s dust had suddenly died down. "I’ll bet he has a puncture," said Bob. And the bishop sighed and stared about him, as if he were just awakened. "Where are we?" he asked. "Blessed if I know," said Bob. "But you ought to know." "I don’t," said the bishop. And he got out and stood on the dusty road. He reeled, and the dean would have said he was intoxicated. And so he was. "Geordie’s off again," said Bob. "Come, jump in." "I won’t," said the bishop. "Certainly I won’t. That machine is a kind of devil. It undermines the strongest convictions. I am afraid of it. I shall have to resign my bishopric if I ride another mile." "Oh, rot!" said Bob. "Aren’t you coming? I can’t wait."