“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.
“Why, Cousin Mark!” she said. McTeague glared at him, struck speechless, confused beyond expression. Marcus Schouler, perfectly at his ease, stood in the doorway, smiling with great affability.
“Say,” he remarked, “can I come in?”
Taken all aback, Trina could only answer: