And then a trump is led, then another trump; then a king,--and then an ace,--and then a long ten, which brings down from the meagre doctor his only remaining tower of strength--his cherished queen of trumps.
"What, no second club ?" says the archdeacon to his partner.
"Only one club," mutters from his inmost stomach the pursy rector, who sits there red-faced, silent, impervious, careful, a safe but not a brilliant ally.
But the archdeacon cares not for many clubs, or for none.

He dashes out his remaining cards with a speed most annoying to his antagonists, pushes over to them some four cards as their allotted portion, shoves the remainder across the table to the red-faced rector; calls out "two by cards and two by honours, and the odd trick last time," marks a treble under the candle-stick, and has dealt round the second pack before the meagre doctor has calculated his losses.
And so went off the warden's party, and men and women arranging shawls and shoes declared how pleasant it had been; and Mrs Goodenough, the red-faced rector's wife, pressing the warden's hand, declared she had never enjoyed herself better; which showed how little pleasure she allowed herself in this world, as she had sat the whole evening through in the same chair without occupation, not speaking, and unspoken to.

And Matilda Johnson, when she allowed young Dickson of the bank to fasten her cloak round her neck, thought that two hundred pounds a year and a little cottage would really do for happiness; besides, he was sure to be manager some day.

And Apollo, folding his flute into his pocket, felt that he had acquitted himself with honour; and the archdeacon pleasantly jingled his gains; but the meagre doctor went off without much audible speech, muttering ever and anon as he went, "three and thirty points!" "three and thirty points!" And so they all were gone, and Mr Harding was left alone with his daughter.
What had passed between Eleanor Harding and Mary Bold need not be told.

It is indeed a matter of thankfulness that neither the historian nor the novelist hears all that is said by their heroes or heroines, or how would three volumes or twenty suffice! In the present case so little of this sort have I overheard, that I live in hopes of finishing my work within 300 pages, and of completing that pleasant task--a novel in one volume; but something had passed between them, and as the warden blew out the wax candles, and put his instrument into its case, his daughter stood sad and thoughtful by the empty fire-place, determined to speak to her father, but irresolute as to what she would say.
"Well, Eleanor," said he, "are you for bed ?" "Yes," said she, moving, "I suppose so; but papa--Mr Bold was not here tonight; do you know why not ?" "He was asked; I wrote to him myself," said the warden.
"But do you know why he did not come, papa ?" "Well, Eleanor, I could guess; but it's no use guessing at such things, my dear.