ut of place. He was an intruder; he, with his enormous feet,
his colossal bones, his crude, brutal gestures. The mere weight of his
limbs, he was sure, would crush the little bed-stead like an eggshell.

Then, as this first sensation wore off, he began to feel the charm of
the little chamber. It was as though Trina were close by, but invisible.
McTeague felt all the delight of her presence without the embarrassment
that usually accompanied it. He was near to her--nearer than he had ever
been before. He saw into her daily life, her little ways and manners,
her habits, her very thoughts. And was there not in the air of that room
a certain faint perfume that he knew, that recalled her to his mind with
marvellous vividness?

As he put the candle down upon the bureau he saw her hairbrush lying
there. Instantly he picked it up, and, without knowing why, held it
to his face. With what a delicious odor was it redolent! That heavy,
enervating odor of her hair--her wonderful, royal hair! The smell of
that little hairbrush was talismanic. He had but to close his eyes to
see her as distinctly as in a mirror. He saw her tiny, round figure,
dressed all in black--for, curiously enough, it was his very first
impression of Trina that came back to him now--not the Trina of the
later occasions, not the Trina of the blue cloth skirt and white sailor.
He saw her as he had seen her the day that Marcus had introduced them:
saw her pale, round face; her narrow, half-open eyes, blue like the
eyes of a baby; her tiny, pale ears, suggestive of anaemia; the freckles
across the bridge of her nose; her pale lips; the tiara of royal black
hair; and, above all, the delicious poise of the head, tipped back as
though by the weight of all that hair--the poise that thrust out her
chin a little, with the movement that was so confiding, so innocent, so
nearly infantile.

McTeague went softly about the room from one object to another,
beholding Trina in everything he touched or looked at. He came at last
to the closet door. It was ajar. He opened it wide, and paused upon the
threshold.

Trina's clothes were hanging there--skirts and waists, jackets, and
stiff white petticoats. What a vision! For an instant McTeague caught
his breath, spellbound. If he had suddenly discovered Trina herself
there, smiling at him, holding out her hands, he could hardly have been
more overcome. Instantly he recognized the black dress she had worn on
that famous first day. Th