“Tell her about your journey across Europe—how the crops look in Russia—what you think of St. Petersburg—that sort of thing.”
A silent quarter of an hour went by, and then the Baron burst out
“Ach, I cannot write to-day! I cannot invent like you. Ze crops—I have got zat—and zat I arrived safe—and zat Petersburg is nice. Vat else?”
“Anything you can remember from text-books on Muscovy or illustrated interviews with the Czar. Just a word or two, don't you know, to show you've been there; with a few comments of your own.”
“Vat like comments?”
“Such as—'Somewhat annoyed with bombs this afternoon,' or 'This caused me to reflect upon the disadvantages of an alcoholic marine'—any little bit of philosophy that occurs to you.”
The Baron pondered.
“It is a pity zat I have not been in Rossia,” he observed.
“On the other hand, it is a blessing your wife hasn't. Look at the bright side of things, my dear fellow.”
For a short time, from the way in which the Baron took hasty notes in pencil and elaborated them in ink (according to the system of Professor Virchausen), it appeared that he was following his friend's directions. Later, from a sentimental look in his eye, the Count surmised that he was composing an amorous addendum; and at last he laid down his pen with a sigh which the cynical (but only the cynical) might have attributed to relief.