“What’s the matter with you these days, Mac?  You got a bean about somethun, hey?  Spit ut out.”

“No, no,” replied McTeague, looking about on the floor, rolling his eyes; “nothing, no, no.”

“Ah, rats!” returned the other.  McTeague kept silence.  The two billiard players departed.  The huge music-box struck into a fresh tune.

“Huh!” exclaimed Marcus, with a short laugh, “guess you’re in love.”

McTeague gasped, and shuffled his enormous feet under the table.

“Well, somethun’s bitun you, anyhow,” pursued Marcus.  “Maybe I can help you.  We’re pals, you know.  Better tell me what’s up; guess we can straighten ut out.  Ah, go on; spit ut out.”

The situation was abominable.  McTeague could not rise to it.  Marcus was his best friend, his only friend.  They were “pals” and McTeague was very fond of him.  Yet they were both in love, presumably, with the same girl, and now Marcus would try and force the secret out of him; would rush blindly at the rock upon which the two must split, stirred by the very best of motives, wishing only to be of service.  Besides this, there was nobody to whom McTeague would have better preferred to tell his troubles than to Marcus, and yet about this trouble, the greatest trouble of his life, he must keep silent; must refrain from speaking of it to Marcus above everybody.

McTeague began dimly to feel that life was too much for him.  How had it all come about?  A month ago he was perfectly content; he was calm and peaceful, taking his little pleasures as he found them.  His life had shaped itself; was, no doubt, to continue always along these same lines.  A woman had entered his small world and instantly there was discord.  The disturbing element had appeared.  Wherever the woman had put her foot a score of distressing complications had sprung up, like the sudden growth of strange and puzzling flowers.

“Say, Mac, go on; let’s have ut straight,” urged Marcus, leaning toward him.  “Has any duck been doing you dirt?” he cried, his face crimson on the instant.

“No,” said McTeague, helplessly.

“Come along, old man,” persisted Marcus; “let’s have ut.  What is the row?  I’ll do all I can to help you.”

It was more than McTeague could bear.  The situation had got beyond him.  Stupidly he spoke, his hands deep in his pockets, his head rolled forward.

“It’s—­it’s Miss Sieppe,” he said.

“Trina, my cousin?  How do you mean?” inquired Marcus sharply.

“I—­I—­I don’ know,” stammered McTeague, hopelessly confounded.

“You mean,” cried Marcus, suddenly enlightened, “that you are—­that you, too.”

McTeague stirred in his chair, looking at the walls of the room, avoiding the other’s glance.  He nodded his head, then suddenly broke out: 

“I can’t help it.  It ain’t my fault, is it?”

Marcus was struck dumb; he dropped back in his chair breathless.  Suddenly McTeague found his tongue.