It was toward the end of this period of three years that Trina and McTeague had their first serious quarrel.  Trina had talked so much about having a little house of their own at some future day, that McTeague had at length come to regard the affair as the end and object of all their labors.  For a long time they had had their eyes upon one house in particular.  It was situated on a cross street close by, between Polk Street and the great avenue one block above, and hardly a Sunday afternoon passed that Trina and McTeague did not go and look at it.  They stood for fully half an hour upon the other side of the street, examining every detail of its exterior, hazarding guesses as to the arrangement of the rooms, commenting upon its immediate neighborhood—­which was rather sordid.  The house was a wooden two-story arrangement, built by a misguided contractor in a sort of hideous Queen Anne style, all scrolls and meaningless mill work, with a cheap imitation of stained glass in the light over the door.  There was a microscopic front yard full of dusty calla-lilies.  The front door boasted an electric bell.  But for the McTeagues it was an ideal home.  Their idea was to live in this little house, the dentist retaining merely his office in the flat.  The two places were but around the corner from each other, so that McTeague could lunch with his wife, as usual, and could even keep his early morning appointments and return to breakfast if he so desired.

However, the house was occupied.  A Hungarian family lived in it.  The father kept a stationery and notion “bazaar” next to Heise’s harness-shop on Polk Street, while the oldest son played a third violin in the orchestra of a theatre.  The family rented the house unfurnished for thirty-five dollars, paying extra for the water.

But one Sunday as Trina and McTeague on their way home from their usual walk turned into the cross street on which the little house was situated, they became promptly aware of an unwonted bustle going on upon the sidewalk in front of it.  A dray was back against the curb, an express wagon drove away loaded with furniture; bedsteads, looking-glasses, and washbowls littered the sidewalks.  The Hungarian family were moving out.

“Oh, Mac, look!” gasped Trina.

“Sure, sure,” muttered the dentist.

After that they spoke but little.  For upwards of an hour the two stood upon the sidewalk opposite, watching intently all that went forward, absorbed, excited.

On the evening of the next day they returned and visited the house, finding a great delight in going from room to room and imagining themselves installed therein.  Here would be the bedroom, here the dining-room, here a charming little parlor.  As they came out upon the front steps once more they met the owner, an enormous, red-faced fellow, so fat that his walking seemed merely a certain movement of his feet by which he pushed his stomach along in front of him.  Trina talked with him a few moments, but arrived at no understanding, and the two went away after giving him their address.  At supper that night McTeague said: