For a moment Trina stood looking at him as he lay thus, prone, inert, half-dressed, and stupefied with the heat of the room, the steam beer, and the fumes of the cheap tobacco.  Then her little chin quivered and a sob rose to her throat; she fled from the “Parlors,” and locking herself in her bedroom, flung herself on the bed and burst into an agony of weeping.  Ah, no, ah, no, she could not love him.  It had all been a dreadful mistake, and now it was irrevocable; she was bound to this man for life.  If it was as bad as this now, only three weeks after her marriage, how would it be in the years to come?  Year after year, month after month, hour after hour, she was to see this same face, with its salient jaw, was to feel the touch of those enormous red hands, was to hear the heavy, elephantine tread of those huge feet—­in thick gray socks.  Year after year, day after day, there would be no change, and it would last all her life.  Either it would be one long continued revulsion, or else—­worse than all—­she would come to be content with him, would come to be like him, would sink to the level of steam beer and cheap tobacco, and all her pretty ways, her clean, trim little habits, would be forgotten, since they would be thrown away upon her stupid, brutish husband.  “Her husband!” That, was her husband in there—­she could yet hear his snores—­for life, for life.  A great despair seized upon her.  She buried her face in the pillow and thought of her mother with an infinite longing.

Aroused at length by the chittering of the canary, McTeague had awakened slowly.  After a while he had taken down his concertina and played upon it the six very mournful airs that he knew.

Face downward upon the bed, Trina still wept.  Throughout that little suite could be heard but two sounds, the lugubrious strains of the concertina and the noise of stifled weeping.

That her husband should be ignorant of her distress seemed to Trina an additional grievance.  With perverse inconsistency she began to wish him to come to her, to comfort her.  He ought to know that she was in trouble, that she was lonely and unhappy.

“Oh, Mac,” she called in a trembling voice.  But the concertina still continued to wail and lament.  Then Trina wished she were dead, and on the instant jumped up and ran into the “Dental Parlors,” and threw herself into her husband’s arms, crying:  “Oh, Mac, dear, love me, love me big!  I’m so unhappy.”

“What—­what—­what—­” the dentist exclaimed, starting up bewildered, a little frightened.

“Nothing, nothing, only love me, love me always and always.”

But this first crisis, this momentary revolt, as much a matter of high-strung feminine nerves as of anything else, passed, and in the end Trina’s affection for her “old bear” grew in spite of herself.  She began to love him more and more, not for what he was, but for what she had given up to him.  Only once again did Trina undergo a reaction against her husband, and then it was but the matter of an instant, brought on, curiously enough, by the sight of a bit of egg on McTeague’s heavy mustache one morning just after breakfast.