She went down the hall, by the open door of the sitting-room, going on toward the hall door of the bedroom.

As she softly passed the sitting-room she glanced hastily in.  The lamps and the gas were burning brightly, the chairs were pushed back from the table just as the guests had left them, and the table itself, abandoned, deserted, presented to view the vague confusion of its dishes, its knives and forks, its empty platters and crumpled napkins.  The dentist sat there leaning on his elbows, his back toward her; against the white blur of the table he looked colossal.  Above his giant shoulders rose his thick, red neck and mane of yellow hair.  The light shone pink through the gristle of his enormous ears.

Trina entered the bedroom, closing the door after her.  At the sound, she heard McTeague start and rise.

“Is that you, Trina?”

She did not answer; but paused in the middle of the room, holding her breath, trembling.

The dentist crossed the outside room, parted the chenille portieres, and came in.  He came toward her quickly, making as if to take her in his arms.  His eyes were alight.

“No, no,” cried Trina, shrinking from him.  Suddenly seized with the fear of him—­the intuitive feminine fear of the male—­her whole being quailed before him.  She was terrified at his huge, square-cut head; his powerful, salient jaw; his huge, red hands; his enormous, resistless strength.

“No, no—­I’m afraid,” she cried, drawing back from him to the other side of the room.

“Afraid?” answered the dentist in perplexity.  “What are you afraid of, Trina?  I’m not going to hurt you.  What are you afraid of?”

What, indeed, was Trina afraid of?  She could not tell.  But what did she know of McTeague, after all?  Who was this man that had come into her life, who had taken her from her home and from her parents, and with whom she was now left alone here in this strange, vast flat?

“Oh, I’m afraid.  I’m afraid,” she cried.

McTeague came nearer, sat down beside her and put one arm around her.

“What are you afraid of, Trina?” he said, reassuringly.  “I don’t want to frighten you.”

She looked at him wildly, her adorable little chin quivering, the tears brimming in her narrow blue eyes.  Then her glance took on a certain intentness, and she peered curiously into his face, saying almost in a whisper: 

“I’m afraid of you.”

But the dentist did not heed her.  An immense joy seized upon him—­the joy of possession.  Trina was his very own now.  She lay there in the hollow of his arm, helpless and very pretty.

Those instincts that in him were so close to the surface suddenly leaped to life, shouting and clamoring, not to be resisted.  He loved her.  Ah, did he not love her?  The smell of her hair, of her neck, rose to him.

Suddenly he caught her in both his huge arms, crushing down her struggle with his immense strength, kissing her full upon the mouth.  Then her great love for McTeague suddenly flashed up in Trina’s breast; she gave up to him as she had done before, yielding all at once to that strange desire of being conquered and subdued.  She clung to him, her hands clasped behind his neck, whispering in his ear: