"But the experience," I ventured to say.
"Oh yes, the experience; but that I did not need."
In the evening we had one of our drowsy games of whist, made up of Countess B——, our neighbor opposite, brought across the street in her sedan-chair (she never walks), Mr. Moulton, myself, and Beaumont making the sleepy fourth. Neither of our guests speaks English with anything like facility, but they make frantic efforts to carry on the game in English, as Mr. Moulton has never learned the game in French and only uses English terms.
Mr. Moulton always plays with Countess B——, and I always play with
Beaumont; we never change partners.
This is the kind of game we play:
It takes Beaumont a very long time to arrange his cards, which he does in a unique way, being goaded on by Mr. Moulton's impatient "Well!" He picks out all the cards of one suit and he lays them downward on the table in a pile; then he gathers them up and puts them between the third and fourth fingers of his left hand. With the next suit he does likewise, placing them between the second and third fingers, and so on, until the grand finale, when the fingers loosen and the cards amalgamate. During this process his cards fall every few minutes on the floor, occasioning much delay, as they have all to be arranged again.
It is my deal; I turn up a heart. The Countess is on my left. We wait with impatience for her to play, but she seems only to be contemplating her cards.
"Well!" says Mr. Moulton, impatiently.
We all say in unison, "Your play, Countess!"
The Countess: "Oh, what dreadful cards! I can never play. Oh," with a sigh, "how dreadful!"