In the end Trina was obliged to
submit. McTeague kept his concertina and his canary, even going so far
as to put them both away in the bedroom, attaching to them tags on which
he had scrawled in immense round letters, "Not for Sale."
One evening during that same week the dentist and his wife were in the
dismantled sitting-room. The room presented the appearance of a wreck.
The Nottingham lace curtains were down. The extension table was heaped
high with dishes, with tea and coffee pots, and with baskets of spoons
and knives and forks. The melodeon was hauled out into the middle of the
floor, and covered with a sheet marked "Lot A," the pictures were in a
pile in a corner, the chenille portieres were folded on top of the black
walnut table. The room was desolate, lamentable. Trina was going over
the inventory; McTeague, in his shirt sleeves, was smoking his pipe,
looking stupidly out of the window. All at once there was a brisk
rapping at the door.
"Come in," called Trina, apprehensively. Now-a-days at every unexpected
visit she anticipated a fresh calamity. The door opened to let in a
young man wearing a checked suit, a gay cravat, and a marvellously
figured waistcoat.
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