_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!

_Lady Fritterly_. There, it is getting louder, like distant artillery,