“My lord,” added Mohi, “of the unical, and rudimental fundament of things, you remember.”
“Ah! there’s none of them sober; proceed, proceed, Azzageddi!”
“My lord waves his hand like a banner,” murmured Yoomy.
“Without imagination, I say, an armless man, born, blind, could not be made to believe, that he had a head of hair, since he could neither see it, nor feel it, nor has hair any feeling of itself.”
“Methinks though,” said Mohi, “if the cripple had a Tartar for a wife, he would not remain skeptical long.”
“You all fly off at tangents,” cried Media, “but no wonder: your mortal brains can not endure much quaffing. Return to your subject, Babbalanja. Assume now, Babbalanja,—assume, my dear prince—assume it, assume it, I say!—Why don’t you?”
“I am willing to assume any thing you please, my lord: what is it?”
“Ah! yes!—Assume that—that upon returning home, you should find your wife had newly wedded, under the—the—the metaphysical presumption, that being no longer visible, you—you Azzageddi, had departed this life; in other words, out of sight, out of mind; what then, my dear prince?”
“Why then, my lord, I would demolish my rival in a trice.”
“Would you?—then—then so much for your metaphysics, Bab—Babbalanja.”