At the Cavour

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 look comes up to call,
A look half miserably wise.
Half heedlessly ironical.