in fact. He had become used to her by
now. She was part of the order of the things with which he found himself
surrounded. He saw nothing extraordinary about her; it was no longer a
pleasure for him to kiss her and take her in his arms; she was merely
his wife. He did not dislike her; he did not love her. She was his wife,
that was all. But he sadly missed and regretted all those little animal
comforts which in the old prosperous life Trina had managed to find for
him. He missed the cabbage soups and steaming chocolate that Trina had
taught him to like; he missed his good tobacco that Trina had educated
him to prefer; he missed the Sunday afternoon walks that she had caused
him to substitute in place of his nap in the operating chair; and he
missed the bottled beer that she had induced him to drink in place of
the steam beer from Frenna's. In the end he grew morose and sulky, and
sometimes neglected to answer his wife when she spoke to him. Besides
this, Trina's avarice was a perpetual annoyance to him. Oftentimes when
a considerable alleviation of this unhappiness could have been obtained
at the expense of a nickel or a dime, Trina refused the money with a
pettishness that was exasperating.

"No, no," she would exclaim. "To ride to the park Sunday afternoon, that
means ten cents, and I can't afford it."

"Let's walk there, then."

"I've got to work."

"But you've worked morning and afternoon every day this week."

"I don't care, I've got to work."

There had been a time when Trina had hated the idea of McTeague drinking
steam beer as common and vulgar.

"Say, let's have a bottle of beer to-night. We haven't had a drop of
beer in three weeks."

"We can't afford it. It's fifteen cents a bottle."

"But I haven't had a swallow of beer in three weeks."

"Drink STEAM beer, then. You've got a nickel. I gave you a quarter day
before yesterday."

"But I don't like steam beer now."

It was so with everything. Unfortunately, Trina had cultivated tastes in
McTeague which now could not be gratified. He had come to be very proud
of his silk hat and "Prince Albert" coat, and liked to wear them on
Sundays. Trina had made him sell both. He preferred "Yale mixture" in
his pipe; Trina had made him come down to "Mastiff," a five-cent tobacco
with which he was once contented, but now abhorred. He liked to wear
clean cuffs; Trina allowed him a fresh pair on Sundays only. At first
these deprivations angered McTeague. Then, all