exasperated, powerless to extricate himself.

Marcus Schouler said nothing. There was a long silence. Marcus got up
and walked to the window and stood looking out, but seeing nothing.
"Well, who would have thought of this?" he muttered under his breath.
Here was a fix. Marcus cared for Trina. There was no doubt in his
mind about that. He looked forward eagerly to the Sunday afternoon
excursions. He liked to be with Trina. He, too, felt the charm of the
little girl--the charm of the small, pale forehead; the little chin
thrust out as if in confidence and innocence; the heavy, odorous crown
of black hair. He liked her immensely. Some day he would speak; he would
ask her to marry him. Marcus put off this matter of marriage to some
future period; it would be some time--a year, perhaps, or two. The thing
did not take definite shape in his mind. Marcus "kept company" with his
cousin Trina, but he knew plenty of other girls. For the matter of that,
he liked all girls pretty well. Just now the singleness and strength of
McTeague's passion startled him. McTeague would marry Trina that very
afternoon if she would have him; but would he--Marcus? No, he would not;
if it came to that, no, he would not. Yet he knew he liked Trina. He
could say--yes, he could say--he loved her. She was his "girl." The
Sieppes acknowledged him as Trina's "young man." Marcus came back to the
table and sat down sideways upon it.

"Well, what are we going to do about it, Mac?" he said.

"I don' know," answered McTeague, in great distress. "I don' want
anything to--to come between us, Mark."

"Well, nothun will, you bet!" vociferated the other. "No, sir; you bet
not, Mac."

Marcus was thinking hard. He could see very clearly that McTeague loved
Trina more than he did; that in some strange way this huge, brutal
fellow was capable of a greater passion than himself, who was twice as
clever. Suddenly Marcus jumped impetuously to a resolution.

"Well, say, Mac," he cried, striking the table with his fist, "go ahead.
I guess you--you want her pretty bad. I'll pull out; yes, I will. I'll
give her up to you, old man."

The sense of his own magnanimity all at once overcame Marcus. He saw
himself as another man, very noble, self-sacrificing; he stood apart
and watched this second self with boundless admiration and with infinite
pity. He was so good, so magnificent, so heroic, that he almost sobbed.
Marcus made a sweeping gesture of resignation, throwing out