Mary E. Wilkins, The Whist-Players
“ 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. ”
