"What?" snapped out the Commendatore, sitting up.
"Yes," said Susanna, dreamily, "Father Angelo. He won't refuse to do what I ask him to."
"Bah," said the Commendatore. "A priest—a monk—a shaveling—a bare-toes."
"A very good, kind, holy man," said Susanna. "And as my cousin is a faithful Catholic, I think on all accounts Father Angelo will serve my purpose best."
"Peuh—a Jesuit," said the Commendatore, elevating his nose.
"He is n't a Jesuit—he is a Capuchin," said Susanna.
"They are all Jesuits," said the Commendatore, with a sweeping gesture. "A brown-back—a funeral-follower—a prayer-monger," he growled, brushing his immense moustaches upwards, to emphasize his scorn.
"Hush," Susanna remonstrated, lifting her hand. "You must n't rail against religion."
"I do not rail against religion," answered the Commendatore. "Taken in moderation, religion is an excellent thing—for women. Did I not see that you were religiously brought up? But when it comes to these priests, these Jesuits,—when it comes to that Father Angelo,—I would have them all hung up and smoke-dried, to make bacon of. Garrh!" he snorted, tossing his head.
"Yes, I know," murmured Susanna. "You were always jealous of Father
Angelo."