"Yes—my mother chose a wife for me."
"I can well believe that," said Hartmut laughing. "But you at least gave your 'yes' willingly."
Willibald did not answer, but seemed to be studying the pattern of the carpet intently; suddenly he asked abruptly:
"Hartmut—how do you go to work to write poetry anyhow?"
Hartmut repressed a smile with difficulty. "That is not easy to explain. I really fear I cannot answer you intelligibly."
"Yes, writing poetry is a curious thing," sighed Willibald with a sad shake of the head. "I tried it myself after I came out of the theatre last night."
"What! You've taken to poetry?"
"Haven't I, though," said Will with a lofty self-consciousness. "But," he added dejectedly, "I can't make it rhyme, and it hasn't the same sound as your verses. I have it in my head, but I don't suppose I have it just right. How did you begin yours? The commencement is the stumbling block. It's nothing very great or romantic, like 'Arivana.'"
"Addressed to her of course?" hazarded Hartmut.
"Yes, to her," Willibald admitted with a deep sigh; and now his listener laughed out loud and clear.