of tears. McTeague released her, but in that moment a slight, a barely
perceptible, revulsion of feeling had taken place in him. The instant
that Trina gave up, the instant she allowed him to kiss her, he thought
less of her. She was not so desirable, after all. But this reaction
was so faint, so subtle, so intangible, that in another moment he
had doubted its occurrence. Yet afterward it returned. Was there not
something gone from Trina now? Was he not disappointed in her for doing
that very thing for which he had longed? Was Trina the submissive, the
compliant, the attainable just the same, just as delicate and adorable
as Trina the inaccessible? Perhaps he dimly saw that this must be so,
that it belonged to the changeless order of things--the man desiring
the woman only for what she withholds; the woman worshipping the man for
that which she yields up to him. With each concession gained the man's
desire cools; with every surrender made the woman's adoration increases.
But why should it be so?

Trina wrenched herself free and drew back from McTeague, her little
chin quivering; her face, even to the lobes of her pale ears, flushed
scarlet; her narrow blue eyes brimming. Suddenly she put her head
between her hands and began to sob.

"Say, say, Miss Trina, listen--listen here, Miss Trina," cried McTeague,
coming forward a step.

"Oh, don't!" she gasped, shrinking. "I must go home," she cried,
springing to her feet. "It's late. I must. I must. Don't come with
me, please. Oh, I'm so--so,"--she could not find any words. "Let me go
alone," she went on. "You may--you come Sunday. Good-by."

"Good-by," said McTeague, his head in a whirl at this sudden,