“No, Madam,” replied Mangogul, endeavouring to smother a yawn, “the minute that one sees you, is not that of tiresomeness.”

“If that is not a polite compliment, ’tis nobody’s fault but your own,” rejoin’d Mirzoza: “but you ponder, you are absent, you yawn. Prince, what ails you?”

“I know not,” said the Sultan.

“But I guess,” continued the favorite. “I was eighteen, when I had the good fortune to please you. It is full four years since you began to love me. Eighteen and four make twenty-two. Therefore I am now very old.” Mangogul smiled at this calculation. “But if I am no longer worth anything for pleasure,” added Mirzoza, “I will at least demonstrate that I am very good for advice. The variety of amusements which attend you, has not been able to secure you against disgust. You are disgusted. Prince, there is your disease.”