The church at Monkswell was heated by pipes which on mild days brought the temperature up to seventy degrees Fahrenheit, and in cold weather left the air in such a condition that to uncover his bald head was a severe trial of the parson’s faith. The weather had changed, and Farquhar, coming in after service on Sunday afternoon, went straight to the fire to warm his hands. He was an exemplary church-goer.
“Cold?” inquired Lucian, who was now allowed to talk a little.
“Bitterly. The snow-wind’s blowing; we shall be white to-morrow, if I don’t err.”
“Gale at seventy miles an hour, temperature twenty degrees below zero; yes, I’ve tried that out in Athabasca, and it didn’t suit me,” said Lucian, whose rebellious body appreciated luxury though his hardy spirit despised it.
“My faith, no! but I’m not sure that twenty degrees below isn’t better than a hundred and twenty above.”
“That’s a nice preparation for the bad time coming,” said the incorrigible Lucian. “Talking of which, what was that devilry you used when you carried in my fainting form?”
“Devilry, indeed! It was massage.”
“Not the ordinary, common or garden English massage, sonny; I’ve tried that.”
“Massage is massage all the world over, I should have said. However, I learned mine in Africa.”
“And who was your moonshee?”