, but never sent the twelve that was to be her
share. One day the dentist happened to ask her about it.

"You sent that twenty-five to your mother, didn't you?" said he.

"Oh, long ago," answered Trina, without thinking.

In fact, Trina never allowed herself to think very much of this affair.
And, in fact, another matter soon came to engross her attention.

One Sunday evening Trina and her husband were in their sitting-room
together. It was dark, but the lamp had not been lit. McTeague had
brought up some bottles of beer from the "Wein Stube" on the ground
floor, where the branch post-office used to be. But they had not
opened the beer. It was a warm evening in summer. Trina was sitting on
McTeague's lap in the bay window, and had looped back the Nottingham
curtains so the two could look out into the darkened street and watch
the moon coming up over the glass roof of the huge public baths. On
occasions they sat like this for an hour or so, "philandering," Trina
cuddling herself down upon McTeague's enormous body, rubbing her cheek
against the grain of his unshaven chin, kissing the bald spot on the top
of his head, or putting her fingers into his ears and eyes. At times,
a brusque access of passion would seize upon her, and, with a nervous
little sigh, she would clasp his thick red neck in both her small arms
and whisper in his ear:

"Do you love me, Mac, dear? Love me BIG, BIG? Sure, do you love me as
much as you did when we were married?"

Puzzled, McTeague would answer: "Well, you know it, don't you, Trina?"

"But I want you to SAY so; say so always and always."

"Well, I do, of course I do."

"Say it, then."

"Well, then, I love you."

"But you don't say it of your own accord."

"Well, what--what--what--I don't understand," stammered the dentist,
bewildered.

There was a knock on the door. Confused and embarrassed, as if they were
not married, Trina scrambled off McTeague's lap, hastening to light the
lamp, whispering, "Put on your coat, Mac, and smooth your hair," and
making gestures for him to put the beer bottles out of sight. She opened
the door and uttered an exclamation.

"Why, Cousin Mark!" she said. McTeague glared at him, struck speechless,
confused beyond expression. Marcus Schouler, perfectly at his ease,
stood in the doorway, smiling with great affability.

"Say," he remarked, "can I come in?"

Taken all aback, Trina could only answer:

"Why--I suppose so. Yes, of course--come in."