We are all very sorry for her. She has evidently wretched cards.
Long pause. "Your turn, Countess!" we all cry.
"What are trumps?" she asks.
We show her the trump card on the table and say together, "Hearts."
Another long pause.
She arranges her cards deliberately and then shuts them up like a fan.
"Your play, partner," says Mr. Moulton, tired out with waiting.
With a dismal wail, and looking about for sympathy, she plays the ace of clubs.
Mr. Moulton gathers up the trick.
She has no idea that she has taken anything, but is quietly adjusting her cards again.