THEY play whist, the beaus in their powdered wigs and velvet coats, the ladies in their brocade petticoats and fine stomachers. The west windows are open; a fountain plashes in the garden; the flower-beds are bordered with box, and the scent of the box comes in at the open windows.
They play whist. A beau shakes back the lace frill from his hand as he deals. A red jewel gleams on his finger. The ladies' brocades rustle; they frown softly at their cards. An hour-glass stands on a table inlaid with mother-of-pearl; the sand in the hour-glass flows silently; the pungent smell of the box comes in at the open windows.
They play whist. A lady leads from her long suit; a beau takes the trick with a king. His black eyes flash under his white wig like eternal youth.
The fountain plashes in the garden; the pungent smell of the box comes in at the open windows; the sand in he hour-glass flows as silently as the lives of the players.
They play whist. A beau leads an ace; his partner trumps. A trick is lost, but he looks at her, and smiles. A trick is lost but love is immortal.