"As you see. I have not written a word."
This was very possible. There are times in his life when a poet only feels poetry, does not write it.
"Why, we have not a sheet of paper in the house," said Bethsaba, whose woman's instinct whispers to her it is her greatest boast when a poet's wife can say that it has been through her that the poet has been faithless to his muse. "We really have not. I had to use my godmother's letter to make my dragon's eye."
"Indeed! Is that how you treat your correspondence? That is a good thing to know. I will never write to you then, but, when I have anything to tell you, will rather come myself."
"That will be nice."
"Or I will take you with me."
To this the same response, "That will be nice," did not come. Clinging to Alexander's arm she looked up to him, saying:
"You will not let me go, will you?"
Zeneida answered for him:
"To that we shall not ask Alexander Sergievitch. His business it is when his little wife wants to go visiting to order out the carriage and horses, and to take care of the house in her absence."