“Who’s got the money?”

“We’ve got it.”

“We!”

“Well, it’s all in the family.  What’s yours is mine, and what’s mine is yours, ain’t it?”

“No, it’s not; no, it’s not,” cried Trina, vehemently.  “It’s all mine, mine.  There’s not a penny of it belongs to anybody else.  I don’t like to have to talk this way to you, but you just make me.  We’re not going to touch a penny of my five thousand nor a penny of that little money I managed to save—­that seventy-five.”

“That two hundred, you mean.”

“That seventy-five.  We’re just going to live on the interest of that and on what I earn from Uncle Oelbermann—­on just that thirty-one or two dollars.”

“Huh!  Think I’m going to do that, an’ live in such a room as this?”

Trina folded her arms and looked him squarely in the face.

“Well, what are you going to do, then?”

“Huh?”

“I say, what are you going to do?  You can go on and find something to do and earn some more money, and then we’ll talk.”

“Well, I ain’t going to live here.”

“Oh, very well, suit yourself.  I’m going to live here.”

“You’ll live where I tell you,” the dentist suddenly cried, exasperated at the mincing tone she affected.

“Then you’ll pay the rent,” exclaimed Trina, quite as angry as he.

“Are you my boss, I’d like to know?  Who’s the boss, you or I?”

“Who’s got the money, I’d like to know?” cried Trina, flushing to her pale lips.  “Answer me that, McTeague, who’s got the money?”

“You make me sick, you and your money.  Why, you’re a miser.  I never saw anything like it.  When I was practising, I never thought of my fees as my own; we lumped everything in together.”

“Exactly; and I’m doing the working now.  I’m working for Uncle Oelbermann, and you’re not lumping in anything now.  I’m doing it all.  Do you know what I’m doing, McTeague?  I’m supporting you.”

“Ah, shut up; you make me sick.”

“You got no right to talk to me that way.  I won’t let you.  I—­I won’t have it.”  She caught her breath.  Tears were in her eyes.

“Oh, live where you like, then,” said McTeague, sullenly.

“Well, shall we take this room then?”

“All right, we’ll take it.  But why can’t you take a little of your money an’—­an’—­sort of fix it up?”

“Not a penny, not a single penny.”

“Oh, I don’t care what you do.”  And for the rest of the day the dentist and his wife did not speak.

This was not the only quarrel they had during these days when they were occupied in moving from their suite and in looking for new quarters.  Every hour the question of money came up.  Trina had become more niggardly than ever since the loss of McTeague’s practice.  It was not mere economy with her now.  It was a panic terror lest a fraction of a cent of her little savings should be touched; a passionate eagerness to continue to save in spite of all that had happened.  Trina could have easily afforded better quarters than the single whitewashed room at the top of the flat, but she made McTeague believe that it was impossible.