What more incomprehensible than that one of the fair sex should have no time to look at a ball-dress sent direct from the capital? The dragon was mended, and ready now to resume its flight in the air.
Laughing and shouting, Bethsaba ran along with the tail of her kite dragging after her; the second child stood looking on, laughing, while the dragon disapprovingly waggled its foolish-looking head. While starting a kite, the flyer has to run back with head turned upward. Bethsaba, therefore, was not aware that she was running directly against some one coming towards her from the English garden; and was startled to find herself suddenly embraced from behind, and a long kiss impressed upon her face. Then she gave a loud, joyous cry, and the next instant her arms were round the intruder's neck; and, not content with hanging upon that neck, she pulled its owner on to the grass, and, rolling over, kissed her enthusiastically, interposing the most endearing epithets: "You love!—you darling!—you precious!" Pushkin was fain to go to the rescue, and help them both up again.
It needed no extraordinary acumen to guess who the guest, so affectionately welcomed, could be.
"Do not quite strangle me, you little goose!" exclaimed Zeneida. "Look; your dragon has meanwhile flown away."
"Let it fly out into the wide world, and my godmother's letter with it. Do you know I have had a letter from my godmother? Do you know she has invited me to the Masinka Fête without Alexander? Do you know what I did with her letter? My dragon had a slit, and I mended the slit with it. How dear and good of you to come and see us!"
"It is the correct thing. Six weeks after marriage it is the wedding-mother's duty to come and look after the young couple and see that they are happy together—and if they really care for each other. Has your husband beaten you yet?"
"Oh, dreadfully," said Bethsaba, pretending to complain. "The last time it was here!" And she secretly rubbed a place on her arm until she had made it red; but a redness, Zeneida detected, which had come from no blows.
"And you, Pushkin, have you been writing many fine verses?"
"Not a line! You know my muse is never active in fine weather. It requires storm, rain, and snow."
"And your sky has remained sunny?"