As they were to remain with us that day and had taken their places to return by the coach next morning, I sought an opportunity of speaking to Mr. Skimpole.  Our out-of-door life easily threw one in my way, and I delicately said that there was a responsibility in encouraging Richard.

“Responsibility, my dear Miss Summerson?” he repeated, catching at the word with the pleasantest smile.  “I am the last man in the world for such a thing.  I never was responsible in my life—­I can’t be.”

“I am afraid everybody is obliged to be,” said I timidly enough, he being so much older and more clever than I.

“No, really?” said Mr. Skimpole, receiving this new light with a most agreeable jocularity of surprise.  “But every man’s not obliged to be solvent?  I am not.  I never was.  See, my dear Miss Summerson,” he took a handful of loose silver and halfpence from his pocket, “there’s so much money.  I have not an idea how much.  I have not the power of counting.  Call it four and ninepence—­call it four pound nine.  They tell me I owe more than that.  I dare say I do.  I dare say I owe as much as good-natured people will let me owe.  If they don’t stop, why should I?  There you have Harold Skimpole in little.  If that’s responsibility, I am responsible.”

The perfect ease of manner with which he put the money up again and looked at me with a smile on his refined face, as if he had been mentioning a curious little fact about somebody else, almost made me feel as if he really had nothing to do with it.

“Now, when you mention responsibility,” he resumed, “I am disposed to say that I never had the happiness of knowing any one whom I should consider so refreshingly responsible as yourself.  You appear to me to be the very touchstone of responsibility.  When I see you, my dear Miss Summerson, intent upon the perfect working of the whole little orderly system of which you are the centre, I feel inclined to say to myself—­in fact I do say to myself very often—­ that’s responsibility!”

It was difficult, after this, to explain what I meant; but I persisted so far as to say that we all hoped he would check and not confirm Richard in the sanguine views he entertained just then.

“Most willingly,” he retorted, “if I could.  But, my dear Miss Summerson, I have no art, no disguise.  If he takes me by the hand and leads me through Westminster Hall in an airy procession after fortune, I must go.  If he says, ‘Skimpole, join the dance!’ I must join it.  Common sense wouldn’t, I know, but I have no common sense.”

It was very unfortunate for Richard, I said.