“But do you know you can’t practise unless you’re graduated from a college?  You haven’t the right to call yourself, ‘doctor.’”

McTeague stared a moment; then: 

“Why, I’ve been practising ten years.  More—­nearly twelve.”

“But it’s the law.”

“What’s the law?”

“That you can’t practise, or call yourself doctor, unless you’ve got a diploma.”

“What’s that—­a diploma?”

“I don’t know exactly.  It’s a kind of paper that—­that—­oh, Mac, we’re ruined.”  Trina’s voice rose to a cry.

“What do you mean, Trina?  Ain’t I a dentist?  Ain’t I a doctor?  Look at my sign, and the gold tooth you gave me.  Why, I’ve been practising nearly twelve years.”

Trina shut her lips tightly, cleared her throat, and pretended to resettle a hair-pin at the back of her head.

“I guess it isn’t as bad as that,” she said, very quietly.  “Let’s read this again.  ’Herewith prohibited and enjoined from further continuing——­’” She read to the end.

“Why, it isn’t possible,” she cried.  “They can’t mean—­oh, Mac, I do believe—­pshaw!” she exclaimed, her pale face flushing.  “They don’t know how good a dentist you are.  What difference does a diploma make, if you’re a first-class dentist?  I guess that’s all right.  Mac, didn’t you ever go to a dental college?”

“No,” answered McTeague, doggedly.  “What was the good?  I learned how to operate; wa’n’t that enough?”

“Hark,” said Trina, suddenly.  “Wasn’t that the bell of your office?” They had both heard the jangling of the bell that McTeague had hung over the door of his “Parlors.”  The dentist looked at the kitchen clock.

“That’s Vanovitch,” said he.  “He’s a plumber round on Sutter Street.  He’s got an appointment with me to have a bicuspid pulled.  I got to go back to work.”  He rose.

“But you can’t,” cried Trina, the back of her hand upon her lips, her eyes brimming.  “Mac, don’t you see?  Can’t you understand?  You’ve got to stop.  Oh, it’s dreadful!  Listen.”  She hurried around the table to him and caught his arm in both her hands.

“Huh?” growled McTeague, looking at her with a puzzled frown.

“They’ll arrest you.  You’ll go to prison.  You can’t work—­can’t work any more.  We’re ruined.”

Vanovitch was pounding on the door of the sitting-room.

“He’ll be gone in a minute,” exclaimed McTeague.

“Well, let him go.  Tell him to go; tell him to come again.”

“Why, he’s got an appointment with me,” exclaimed McTeague, his hand upon the door.

Trina caught him back.  “But, Mac, you ain’t a dentist any longer; you ain’t a doctor.  You haven’t the right to work.  You never went to a dental college.”

“Well, suppose I never went to a college, ain’t I a dentist just the same?  Listen, he’s pounding there again.  No, I’m going, sure.”

“Well, of course, go,” said Trina, with sudden reaction.  “It ain’t possible they’ll make you stop.  If you’re a good dentist, that’s all that’s wanted.  Go on, Mac; hurry, before he goes.”