Maria Macapa had come into the room while he had been speaking. She was
making up McTeague's bed. Suddenly Marcus exclaimed under his breath:
"Now we'll have some fun. It's the girl that takes care of the rooms.
She's a greaser, and she's queer in the head. She ain't regularly crazy,
but I don't know, she's queer. Y'ought to hear her go on about a gold
dinner service she says her folks used to own. Ask her what her name is
and see what she'll say." Trina shrank back, a little frightened.

"No, you ask," she whispered.

"Ah, go on; what you 'fraid of?" urged Marcus. Trina shook her head
energetically, shutting her lips together.

"Well, listen here," answered Marcus, nudging her; then raising his
voice, he said:

"How do, Maria?" Maria nodded to him over her shoulder as she bent over
the lounge.

"Workun hard nowadays, Maria?"

"Pretty hard."

"Didunt always have to work for your living, though, did you, when you
ate offa gold dishes?" Maria didn't answer, except by putting her chin
in the air and shutting her eyes, as though to say she knew a long story
about that if she had a mind to talk. All Marcus's efforts to draw her
out on the subject were unavailing. She only responded by movements of
her head.