"On the contrary, he makes an extremely striking archangel. The picture you see represents Saint Michael----"
"It may represent the devil, for all I care!" Wehlau angrily interrupted him.
"Oh, he's there, too, and as large as life. But how can the subject of my picture affect you?"
"How can it affect me?" the Professor burst out, having much ado to preserve the low tone of voice required by the situation. "You know my attitude with regard to the ecclesiastical party. You know that because of it I am excommunicated by the priests, and here you are painting pictures of saints for their churches. I will not permit it! I will not have it! I forbid it!"
"Impossible, papa," said Hans, composedly. "The picture belongs to the Countess, and is, moreover, promised to the church at Saint Michael."
"Where, of course, it will be installed with all due ecclesiastical pomp."
"To be sure, papa,--on the feast of Saint Michael."
"Hans, you will be the death of me with your 'To be sure, papa.' At the feast of Saint Michael, when all the mountain population is assembled,--oh, this grows better and better! The clerical newspapers will of course get hold of the affair; they will devote columns to the procession, the mass, the worshippers, and among it all will appear everywhere the name of Hans Wehlau,--my name."
"My name, if you please," the young artist interposed with emphasis.
"I wish to heaven I had had you christened Pancratius or Blasius, that the world might have known the difference!" exclaimed the Professor, in desperation.