‘Luxury?’ the priest asked. He stood by the earthenware jar, glass in hand, trying to collect his thoughts, staring out over the long peaceful glassy slopes. ‘You mean …’ Perhaps Mr Lehr was right; he had lived very easily once and here he was, already settling down to idleness again. ‘All the gold leaf in the churches.’ ‘It’s often just paint, you know,’ the priest murmured conciliatingly. He thought: yes, three days and I’ve done nothing, nothing, and he looked down at his feet elegantly shod in a pair of Mr Lehr’s shoes, his legs in Mr Lehr’s spare trousers.
