Good Books

_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.


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