Pebbles white and black are rhythmically arrayed: the newest rage among those who know, the oriental game of go. In patterned muslin the women bend. Hands, splashed in silver, approach, return, and stop to pour the tea. Outside the garden shakes, jingling mirrors on a gypsy shawl. Iris and tiger lilies aspire from green rushness underneath. They, too, are playing but more slowly. Even the ants don't know; pattering up and down vibrant arcs of lushness they lay lines of traffic across, down. Black and white almost surrounded. Tea leaves clog the perforations in the china spout. Cups lay carelessly about, half-full of Lapsang Suchong. Dust cascades in sunny chambers - bronze and gossamer flakes. The clock has stopped. Now the only sounds are of voices, and the haphazard click of stones.