"He's a precious specimen of a humbug, anyhow," sighed Lorimer drearily. "However, I'll be civil to him as long as he doesn't ask me to hear him preach. At that suggestion I'll fight him. He's soft enough to bruise easily."
"Ye're just too lazy to fight onybody," declared Macfarlane.
Lorimer smiled sweetly. "Thanks, awfully! I dare say you're right. I've never found it worth while as yet to exert myself in any particular direction. No one has asked me to exert myself; no one wants me to exert myself; therefore, why should I?"
"Don't ye want to get on in the world?" asked Macfarlane, almost brusquely.
"Dear me, no! What an exhausting idea! Get on in the world--what for? I have five hundred a year, and when my mother goes over to the majority (long distant be that day, for I'm very fond of the dear old lady), I shall have five thousand--more than enough to satisfy any sane man who doesn't want to speculate on the Stock Exchange. Your case, my good Mac, is different. You will be a celebrated Scotch divine. You will preach to a crowd of pious numskulls about predestination, and so forth. You will be stump-orator for the securing of seats in paradise. Now, now, keep calm!--don't mind me. It's only a figure of speech! And the numskulls will call you a 'rare powerful rousin' preacher'--isn't that the way they go on? and when you die--for die you must, most unfortunately--they will give you a three-cornered block of granite (if they can make up their minds to part with the necessary bawbees) with your name prettily engraved thereon. That's all very nice; it suits some people. It wouldn't suit me."
"What would suit you?" queried Errington. "You find everything more or less of a bore."
"Ah, my good little boy!" broke in Duprèz. "Paris is the place for you. You should live in Paris. Of that you would never fatigue yourself."
"Too much absinthe, secret murder and suicidal mania," returned Lorimer, meditatively. "That was a neat idea about the coffins though. I never hoped to dine off a coffin."
"Ah! you mean the Taverne de l'Enfer?" exclaimed Duprèz. "Yes; the divine waitresses wore winding sheets, and the wine was served in imitation skulls. Excellent! I remember; the tables were shaped like coffins."
"Gude Lord Almighty!" piously murmured Macfarlane. "What a fearsome sicht!"
As he pronounced these words with an unusually marked accent, Duprèz looked inquiring.