“Why—I suppose so. Yes, of course—come in.”
“Yes, yes, come in,” exclaimed the dentist, suddenly, speaking without thought. “Have some beer?” he added, struck with an idea.
“No, thanks, Doctor,” said Marcus, pleasantly.
McTeague and Trina were puzzled. What could it all mean? Did Marcus want to become reconciled to his enemy? “I know.” Trina said to herself. “He's going away, and he wants to borrow some money. He won't get a penny, not a penny.” She set her teeth together hard.
“Well,” said Marcus, “how's business, Doctor?”
“Oh,” said McTeague, uneasily, “oh, I don' know. I guess—I guess,” he broke off in helpless embarrassment. They had all sat down by now. Marcus continued, holding his hat and his cane—the black wand of ebony with the gold top presented to him by the “Improvement Club.”
“Ah!” said he, wagging his head and looking about the sitting-room, “you people have got the best fixed rooms in the whole flat. Yes, sir; you have, for a fact.” He glanced from the lithograph framed in gilt and red plush—the two little girls at their prayers—to the “I'm Grandpa” and “I'm Grandma” pictures, noted the clean white matting and the gay worsted tidies over the chair backs, and appeared to contemplate in ecstasy the framed photograph of McTeague and Trina in their wedding finery.
“Well, you two are pretty happy together, ain't you?” said he, smiling good-humoredly.
“Oh, we don't complain,” answered Trina.
“Plenty of money, lots to do, everything fine, hey?”