But as he stood before the mirror, intent upon his shaving, there came a roll of wheels over the cobbles in front of the house.  He rushed to the window.  Trina had arrived with her father and mother.  He saw her get out, and as she glanced upward at his window, their eyes met.

Ah, there she was.  There she was, his little woman, looking up at him, her adorable little chin thrust upward with that familiar movement of innocence and confidence.  The dentist saw again, as if for the first time, her small, pale face looking out from beneath her royal tiara of black hair; he saw again her long, narrow blue eyes; her lips, nose, and tiny ears, pale and bloodless, and suggestive of anaemia, as if all the vitality that should have lent them color had been sucked up into the strands and coils of that wonderful hair.

As their eyes met they waved their hands gayly to each other; then McTeague heard Trina and her mother come up the stairs and go into the bedroom of the photographer’s suite, where Trina was to dress.

No, no; surely there could be no longer any hesitation.  He knew that he loved her.  What was the matter with him, that he should have doubted it for an instant?  The great difficulty was that she was too good, too adorable, too sweet, too delicate for him, who was so huge, so clumsy, so brutal.

There was a knock at the door.  It was Old Grannis.  He was dressed in his one black suit of broadcloth, much wrinkled; his hair was carefully brushed over his bald forehead.

“Miss Trina has come,” he announced, “and the minister.  You have an hour yet.”

The dentist finished dressing.  He wore a suit bought for the occasion—­a ready made “Prince Albert” coat too short in the sleeves, striped “blue” trousers, and new patent leather shoes—­veritable instruments of torture.  Around his collar was a wonderful necktie that Trina had given him; it was of salmon-pink satin; in its centre Selina had painted a knot of blue forget-me-nots.

At length, after an interminable period of waiting, Mr. Sieppe appeared at the door.

“Are you reatty?” he asked in a sepulchral whisper.  “Gome, den.”  It was like King Charles summoned to execution.  Mr. Sieppe preceded them into the hall, moving at a funereal pace.  He paused.  Suddenly, in the direction of the sitting-room, came the strains of the parlor melodeon.  Mr. Sieppe flung his arm in the air.

“Vowaarts!” he cried.

He left them at the door of the sitting-room, he himself going into the bedroom where Trina was waiting, entering by the hall door.  He was in a tremendous state of nervous tension, fearful lest something should go wrong.  He had employed the period of waiting in going through his part for the fiftieth time, repeating what he had to say in a low voice.  He had even made chalk marks on the matting in the places where he was to take positions.