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."