There was a long silence. It was impossible for McTeague to work and
talk at the same time.

He was just burnishing the last "mat" in Miss Baker's tooth, when the
door of the "Parlors" opened, jangling the bell which he had hung over
it, and which was absolutely unnecessary. McTeague turned, one foot on
the pedal of his dental engine, the corundum disk whirling between his
fingers.

It was Marcus Schouler who came in, ushering a young girl of about
twenty.

"Hello, Mac," exclaimed Marcus; "busy? Brought my cousin round about
that broken tooth."

McTeague nodded his head gravely.

"In a minute," he answered.

Marcus and his cousin Trina sat down in the rigid chairs underneath the
steel engraving of the Court of Lorenzo de' Medici. They began talking
in low tones. The girl looked about the room, noticing the stone pug
dog, the rifle manufacturer's calendar, the canary in its little gilt
prison, and the tumbled blankets on the unmade bed-lounge against
the wall. Marcus began telling her about McTeague. "We're pals," he
explained, just above a whisper. "Ah, Mac's all right, you bet. Say,
Trina, he's the strongest duck you ever saw. What do you suppose? He can
pull out your teeth with his fingers; yes, he can. What do you think of
that? With his fingers, mind you; he can, for a fact. Get on to the size
of him, anyhow. Ah, Mac's all right!"