And Mueller, alert for mischief, stared fixedly at the old gentleman in the opposite corner for some minutes—­then sighed—­roused himself as if from a profound reverie—­seized his portfolio—­took out a pencil and sketch-book—­mended the pencil with an elaborate show of fastidiousness and deliberation—­stared again—­drew a deep breath—­turned somewhat aside, as if anxious to conceal his object, and began sketching rapidly.  Now and then he paused; stole a furtive glance over his shoulder; bit his lip; rubbed out; corrected; glanced again; and then went on rapidly as before.

In the meanwhile the old gentleman, who was somewhat red and irascible, began to get seriously uncomfortable.  He frowned, fidgeted, coughed, buttoned and unbuttoned his coat, and jealously watched every proceeding of his tormentor.  A general smile dawned upon the faces of the rest of the travellers.  The priest over the way pinched his lips together, and looked down demurely.  The two girls, next to the priest, tittered behind their handkerchiefs.  The young man with the blue cravat sucked the top of his cane, and winked openly at his companions, both of whom were cracking nuts, and flinging the shells down the embankment.  Presently Mueller threw his head back, held the drawing off, still studiously keeping the back of it towards the rest of the passengers; looked at it with half-closed eyes; stole another exceedingly cautious glance at his victim; and then, affecting for the first time to find himself observed, made a vast show of pretending to sketch the country through which we were passing.

The old gentleman could stand it no longer.

“Monsieur,” said he, angrily.  “Monsieur, I will thank you not to take my portrait.  I object to it.  Monsieur.”

“Charming distance,” said Mueller, addressing himself to me “Wants interest, however, in the foreground.  That’s a picturesque tree yonder, is it not?”

The old gentleman struck his umbrella sharply on the floor.

“It’s of no use, Monsieur,” he exclaimed, getting more red and excited.  “You are taking my portrait, and I object to it.  I know you are taking my portrait.”

Mueller looked up dreamily.

“I beg your pardon, Monsieur,” said he.  “Did you speak?’

“Yes, Monsieur.  I did speak.  I repeat that you shall not take my portrait.”

“Your portrait, Monsieur?”

“Yes, my portrait!”

“But, Monsieur,” remonstrated the artist, with an air of mingled candor and surprise, “I never dreamed of taking your portrait!”

“Sacre non!” shouted the old gentleman, with another rap of the umbrella.  “I saw you do it!  Everybody saw you do It!”

“Nay, if Monsieur will but do me the honor to believe that I was simply sketching from nature, as the train....”

“An impudent subterfuge, sir!” interrupted the old gentleman.  “An impudent subterfuge, and nothing less!”

Mueller drew himself up with immense dignity.