Page scan source: https://books.google.com/books?id=O5A6AQAAMAAJ (Harvard University Library) Routledge 1893 TWO, BY TRICKS. TWO, BY TRICKS A Novel By EDMUND YATES AUTHOR OF 'BROKEN TO HARNESS,' 'BLACK SHEEP,' 'THE YELLOW FLAG,' ETC. 'Still, for all slips of hers, One of Eve's family' LONDON GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS, LIMITED BROADWAY, LUDGATE HILL MANCHESTER AND NEW YORK Cordially Inscribed TO JOSEPH CHARLES PARKINSON. CONTENTS. CHAP I. On The Grand Tier. II. Lady Forestfield At Home. III. Waiting. IV. This Lot To Be Sold. V. Nouveaux Riches. VI. A Little Dinner. VII. The Morning After. VIII. In Defence. IX. The Old Love. X. On The Watch. XI. An Unexpected Arrival. XII. An Odd Friendship. XIII. In The Avenue Marigny. XIV. Uffington's Bargain. XV. Five-o'clock Tea. XVI. At Woodburn. XVII. Uffington's Errand. XVIII. Husband And Wife. XIX. Released. XX. Coming Up To Time. TWO, BY TRICKS CHAPTER I. ON THE GRAND TIER. It was the week after Ascot, and town was full. Society, which had been amusing itself with the cancans of the season--such as how the Duke of Pimlico, who had been hitherto regarded as the greatest screw in the world, buying his coats from Hyam's, and his hats from the peripatetic Israelites in the streets, dining off a fried sole and half a pint of Hungarian wine, and driving a horse so starved and weak that even Lord ---- would have spared it, had suddenly taken to giving splendid banquets to Royalty, and lighting up the ancestral hall with more wax candles than his grace's father-in-law, the eminent tallow-chandler, had ever sold in a week; how the slim and good-looking Charles Bedford, while playing whist at the Tattenham, had been discovered, not merely with two aces on his lap, but, like the heathen Chinee, with twenty-four packs secreted on various portions of his person; how the noble Master of the Buckhounds had given one of the best boxes at Ascot to pretty Mrs. Delamere, whose husband was away on a scientific expedition inspecting the Fauna and Flora of Central Asia,--society had discussed all these matters, and wanted something new to talk about. It was going to have it. It was hot everywhere in London that night, but hottest of all at the Opera. Outside, the air was thick and heavy, tainted by vegetable refuse from the neighbouring market, laden with fetid odours from the surrounding coffee-shops, taverns, and crapulous dens; inside, the eye was distracted by the constant fluttering of the fans in the boxes and from the area of the stalls, and the ear tortured by the stifled groan of the obese foreigners who line the outer ring of the pit, sweltering terribly.