It was one morning towards the end of August that Paul, who was working in the yard with Michel Raudszus, saw the tall figure of their neighbor walking across the fields straight to the Haidehof.
He was startled—that could not bode any good.
Mr. Douglas shook hands with him kindly, but from under his iron-gray, bushy brows shot an ill-boding look.
“Is your father at home?” he asked, and his voice sounded angry and threatening.
“He is in the parlor,” Paul said, depressed; “if you will allow me, I will take you to him.”
At the sight of the unexpected guest, his father jumped up embarrassed from his chair; but he recovered himself immediately, and began, in his boasting tone, “Oh, it is a good thing that you are here, sir; I have something urgent to say to you.”
“And I not less to you,” retorted Mr. Douglas, planting his massive figure close before him. “How is it, my dear friend, that you abuse my name in this manner?”
“I—your name—sir? What do you mean? Paul, go out.”
“He may stay here,” retorted Mr. Douglas, turning to Paul.
“He shall go out, sir!” cried the old man. “I suppose I am still master in my own house, sir?”