“It may be, partly, because I know nothing of the value of money,” said Mr. Skimpole, “but I often feel this.  It seems so reasonable!  My butcher says to me he wants that little bill.  It’s a part of the pleasant unconscious poetry of the man’s nature that he always calls it a ‘little’ bill—­to make the payment appear easy to both of us.  I reply to the butcher, ’My good friend, if you knew it, you are paid.  You haven’t had the trouble of coming to ask for the little bill.  You are paid.  I mean it.’”

“But, suppose,” said my guardian, laughing, “he had meant the meat in the bill, instead of providing it?”

“My dear Jarndyce,” he returned, “you surprise me.  You take the butcher’s position.  A butcher I once dealt with occupied that very ground.  Says he, ’Sir, why did you eat spring lamb at eighteen pence a pound?’ ’Why did I eat spring lamb at eighteen pence a pound, my honest friend?’ said I, naturally amazed by the question.  ‘I like spring lamb!’ This was so far convincing.  ‘Well, sir,’ says he, ‘I wish I had meant the lamb as you mean the money!’ ’My good fellow,’ said I, ’pray let us reason like intellectual beings.  How could that be?  It was impossible.  You had got the lamb, and I have not got the money.  You couldn’t really mean the lamb without sending it in, whereas I can, and do, really mean the money without paying it!’ He had not a word.  There was an end of the subject.”

“Did he take no legal proceedings?” inquired my guardian.

“Yes, he took legal proceedings,” said Mr. Skimpole.  “But in that he was influenced by passion, not by reason.  Passion reminds me of Boythorn.  He writes me that you and the ladies have promised him a short visit at his bachelor-house in Lincolnshire.”

“He is a great favourite with my girls,” said Mr. Jarndyce, “and I have promised for them.”

“Nature forgot to shade him off, I think,” observed Mr. Skimpole to Ada and me.  “A little too boisterous—­like the sea.  A little too vehement—­like a bull who has made up his mind to consider every colour scarlet.  But I grant a sledge-hammering sort of merit in him!”

I should have been surprised if those two could have thought very highly of one another, Mr. Boythorn attaching so much importance to many things and Mr. Skimpole caring so little for anything.  Besides which, I had noticed Mr. Boythorn more than once on the point of breaking out into some strong opinion when Mr. Skimpole was referred to.  Of course I merely joined Ada in saying that we had been greatly pleased with him.

“He has invited me,” said Mr. Skimpole; “and if a child may trust himself in such hands—­which the present child is encouraged to do, with the united tenderness of two angels to guard him—­I shall go.  He proposes to frank me down and back again.  I suppose it will cost money?  Shillings perhaps?  Or pounds?  Or something of that sort?  By the by, Coavinses.  You remember our friend Coavinses, Miss Summerson?”