AT THE CAVOUR.

By Arthur Symons

WINE, the red coals, the flaring gas,

Bring out a brighter tone in cheeks

That learn at home before the glass

The flush that eloquently speaks.

The blue-grey smoke of cigarettes

Curls from the lessening ends that glow;

The men are thinking of the bets,

The women of the debts, they owe.

Then their eyes meet, and in their eyes

The accustomed smile comes up to call,

A look half miserably wise.

Half heedlessly ironical.