A little later in that same week, when Marcus and McTeague were taking lunch at the car conductors’ coffee-joint, the former suddenly exclaimed: 

“Say, Mac, now that you’ve got Trina, you ought to do more for her.  By damn! you ought to, for a fact.  Why don’t you take her out somewhere—­to the theatre, or somewhere?  You ain’t on to your job.”

Naturally, McTeague had told Marcus of his success with Trina.  Marcus had taken on a grand air.

“You’ve got her, have you?  Well, I’m glad of it, old man.  I am, for a fact.  I know you’ll be happy with her.  I know how I would have been.  I forgive you; yes, I forgive you, freely.”

McTeague had not thought of taking Trina to the theatre.

“You think I ought to, Mark?” he inquired, hesitating.  Marcus answered, with his mouth full of suet pudding: 

“Why, of course.  That’s the proper caper.”

“Well—­well, that’s so.  The theatre—­that’s the word.”

“Take her to the variety show at the Orpheum.  There’s a good show there this week; you’ll have to take Mrs. Sieppe, too, of course,” he added.  Marcus was not sure of himself as regarded certain proprieties, nor, for that matter, were any of the people of the little world of Polk Street.  The shop girls, the plumbers’ apprentices, the small tradespeople, and their like, whose social position was not clearly defined, could never be sure how far they could go and yet preserve their “respectability.”  When they wished to be “proper,” they invariably overdid the thing.  It was not as if they belonged to the “tough” element, who had no appearances to keep up.  Polk Street rubbed elbows with the “avenue” one block above.  There were certain limits which its dwellers could not overstep; but unfortunately for them, these limits were poorly defined.  They could never be sure of themselves.  At an unguarded moment they might be taken for “toughs,” so they generally erred in the other direction, and were absurdly formal.  No people have a keener eye for the amenities than those whose social position is not assured.

“Oh, sure, you’ll have to take her mother,” insisted Marcus.  “It wouldn’t be the proper racket if you didn’t.”

McTeague undertook the affair.  It was an ordeal.  Never in his life had he been so perturbed, so horribly anxious.  He called upon Trina the following Wednesday and made arrangements.  Mrs. Sieppe asked if little August might be included.  It would console him for the loss of his steamboat.

“Sure, sure,” said McTeague.  “August too—­everybody,” he added, vaguely.

“We always have to leave so early,” complained Trina, “in order to catch the last boat.  Just when it’s becoming interesting.”

At this McTeague, acting upon a suggestion of Marcus Schouler’s, insisted they should stay at the flat over night.  Marcus and the dentist would give up their rooms to them and sleep at the dog hospital.  There was a bed there in the sick ward that old Grannis sometimes occupied when a bad case needed watching.  All at once McTeague had an idea, a veritable inspiration.