of common
politeness."

"Spare us, good Lord!" groaned Lorimer.

"What a delightfully fat man is that good religious!" cried Duprez. "A
living proof of the healthiness of Norway!"

"He's not a native," put in Macfarlane; "he's frae Yorkshire. He's only
been a matter of three months here, filling the place o' the settled
meenister who's awa' for a change of air."

"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 Duprez. "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 Du