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.”

“Yes, yes, come in,” exclaimed the dentist, suddenly, speaking without thought.  “Have some beer?” he added, struck with an idea.

“No, thanks, Doctor,” said Marcus, pleasantly.

McTeague and Trina were puzzled.  What could it all mean?  Did Marcus want to become reconciled to his enemy?  “I know.”  Trina said to herself.  “He’s going away, and he wants to borrow some money.  He won’t get a penny, not a penny.”  She set her teeth together hard.

“Well,” said Marcus, “how’s business, Doctor?”

“Oh,” said McTeague, uneasily, “oh, I don’ know.  I guess—­I guess,” he broke off in helpless embarrassment.  They had all sat down by now.  Marcus continued, holding his hat and his cane—­the black wand of ebony with the gold top presented to him by the “Improvement Club.”