Oh, Trina!" He put his arms about
her and drew her down closer to him.
"Never mind, dear; never mind," cried Trina, through her tears. "It'll
all come right in the end, and we'll be poor together if we have to. You
can sure find something else to do. We'll start in again."
"Look at the slate there," said McTeague, pulling away from her and
reaching down the slate on which he kept a record of his appointments.
"Look at them. There's Vanovitch at two on Wednesday, and Loughhead's
wife Thursday morning, and Heise's little girl Thursday afternoon at
one-thirty; Mrs. Watson on Friday, and Vanovitch again Saturday morning
early--at seven. That's what I was to have had, and they ain't going to
come. They ain't ever going to come any more."
Trina took the little slate from him and looked at it ruefully.
"Rub them out," she said, her voice trembling; "rub it all out;" and as
she spoke her eyes brimmed again, and a great tear dropped on the slate.
"That's it," she said; "that's the way to rub it out, by me crying
on it." Then she passed her fingers over the tear-blurred writing and
washed the slate clean. "All gone, all gone," she said.
"All gone," echoed the dentist.
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