“But do you know you can't practise unless you're graduated from a college? You haven't the right to call yourself, 'doctor.'”
McTeague stared a moment; then:
“Why, I've been practising ten years. More—nearly twelve.”
“But it's the law.”
“What's the law?”
“That you can't practise, or call yourself doctor, unless you've got a diploma.”
“What's that—a diploma?”
“I don't know exactly. It's a kind of paper that—that—oh, Mac, we're ruined.” Trina's voice rose to a cry.
“What do you mean, Trina? Ain't I a dentist? Ain't I a doctor? Look at my sign, and the gold tooth you gave me. Why, I've been practising nearly twelve years.”
Trina shut her lips tightly, cleared her throat, and pretended to resettle a hair-pin at the back of her head.