"I've NOT, I've NOT," declared Trina, "and you know I've not. I wish mamma hadn't asked me for any money. Why can't she be a little more economical? I manage all right. No, no, I can't possibly afford to send her fifty."
"Oh, pshaw! What WILL you do, then?" grumbled her husband.
"I'll send her twenty-five this month, and tell her I'll send the rest as soon as I can afford it."
"Trina, you're a regular little miser," said McTeague.
"I don't care," answered Trina, beginning to laugh. "I guess I am, but I can't help it, and it's a good fault."
Trina put off sending this money for a couple of weeks, and her mother made no mention of it in her next letter. "Oh, I guess if she wants it so bad," said Trina, "she'll speak about it again." So she again postponed the sending of it.
Day by day she put it off. When her mother asked her for it a second time, it seemed harder than ever for Trina to part with even half the sum requested. She answered her mother, telling her that they were very hard up themselves for that month, but that she would send down the amount in a few weeks.
"I'll tell you what we'll do, Mac," she said to her husband, "you send half and I'll send half; we'll send twenty-five dollars altogether. Twelve and a half apiece. That's an idea. How will that do?"
"Sure, sure," McTeague had answered, giving her the money.
Trina sent McTeague's twelve dollars, but never sent the twelve that was to be her share. One day the dentist happened to ask her about it.
"You sent that twenty-five to your mother, didn't you?" said he.
"Oh, long ago," answered Trina, without thinking.
In fact, Trina never allowed herself to think very much of this affair. And, in fact, another matter soon came to engross her attention.
One Sunday evening Trina and her husband were in their sitting-room together. It was dark, but the lamp had not been lit. McTeague had brought up some bottles of beer from the "Wein Stube" on the ground floor, where the branch post- office used to be. But they had not opened the beer. It was a warm evening in summer. Trina was sitting on McTeague's lap in the bay window, and had looped back the Nottingham curtains so the two could look out into the darkened street and watch the moon coming up over the glass roof of the huge public baths. On occasions they sat like this for an hour or so, "philandering," Trina cuddling herself down upon McTeague's enormous body, rubbing her cheek against the grain of his unshaven chin, kissing the bald spot on the top of his head, or putting her fingers into his ears and eyes. At times, a brusque access of passion would seize upon her, and, with a nervous little sigh, she would clasp his thick red neck in both her small arms and whisper in his ear:
"Do you love me, Mac, dear? Love me BIG, BIG?
Sure, do you love me as much as you did when we were married?"
Puzzled, McTeague would answer: "Well, you know it, don't you, Trina?"
"But I want you to SAY so; say so always and always."
"Well, I do, of course I do."
"Say it, then."
"Well, then, I love you."
"But you don't say it of your own accord."
"Well, what--what--what--I don't understand," stammered the dentist, bewildered.
There was a knock on the door. Confused and embarrassed, as if they were not married, Trina scrambled off McTeague's lap, hastening to light the lamp, whispering, "Put on your coat, Mac, and smooth your hair," and making gestures for him to put the beer bottles out of sight. She opened the door and uttered an exclamation.
