Jahan was a sturdy man of thirty-six, with dark hair and beard, a large, ruddy mouth and fine bright eyes.

Born in Paris, he had studied at the Fine Art School, but his impetuous temperament had constantly landed him in trouble there.
"Ah! yes," said he, "you've come to see my angel, the one which the Archbishop wouldn't take.

Well, there it is." The clay model of the figure, some three feet high, and already drying, looked superb in its soaring posture, with its large, outspread wings expanding as if with passionate desire for the infinite.

The body, barely draped, was that of a slim yet robust youth, whose face beamed with the rapture of his heavenly flight.
"They found him too human," said Jahan.

"And after all they were right.
There's nothing so difficult to conceive as an angel.