“Do you think so!” returned Mr. Skimpole.  “Don’t say that, don’t say that.  Let us suppose him keeping company with Common Sense—­an excellent man—­a good deal wrinkled—­dreadfully practical—­change for a ten-pound note in every pocket—­ruled account-book in his hand—­say, upon the whole, resembling a tax-gatherer.  Our dear Richard, sanguine, ardent, overleaping obstacles, bursting with poetry like a young bud, says to this highly respectable companion, ’I see a golden prospect before me; it’s very bright, it’s very beautiful, it’s very joyous; here I go, bounding over the landscape to come at it!’ The respectable companion instantly knocks him down with the ruled account-book; tells him in a literal, prosaic way that he sees no such thing; shows him it’s nothing but fees, fraud, horsehair wigs, and black gowns.  Now you know that’s a painful change—­sensible in the last degree, I have no doubt, but disagreeable.  I can’t do it.  I haven’t got the ruled account-book, I have none of the tax-gathering elements in my composition, I am not at all respectable, and I don’t want to be.  Odd perhaps, but so it is!”

It was idle to say more, so I proposed that we should join Ada and Richard, who were a little in advance, and I gave up Mr. Skimpole in despair.  He had been over the Hall in the course of the morning and whimsically described the family pictures as we walked.  There were such portentous shepherdesses among the Ladies Dedlock dead and gone, he told us, that peaceful crooks became weapons of assault in their hands.  They tended their flocks severely in buckram and powder and put their sticking-plaster patches on to terrify commoners as the chiefs of some other tribes put on their war-paint.  There was a Sir Somebody Dedlock, with a battle, a sprung-mine, volumes of smoke, flashes of lightning, a town on fire, and a stormed fort, all in full action between his horse’s two hind legs, showing, he supposed, how little a Dedlock made of such trifles.  The whole race he represented as having evidently been, in life, what he called “stuffed people”—­a large collection, glassy eyed, set up in the most approved manner on their various twigs and perches, very correct, perfectly free from animation, and always in glass cases.

I was not so easy now during any reference to the name but that I felt it a relief when Richard, with an exclamation of surprise, hurried away to meet a stranger whom he first descried coming slowly towards us.

“Dear me!” said Mr. Skimpole.  “Vholes!”

We asked if that were a friend of Richard’s.

“Friend and legal adviser,” said Mr. Skimpole.  “Now, my dear Miss Summerson, if you want common sense, responsibility, and respectability, all united—­if you want an exemplary man—­Vholes is the man.”

We had not known, we said, that Richard was assisted by any gentleman of that name.

“When he emerged from legal infancy,” returned Mr. Skimpole, “he parted from our conversational friend Kenge and took up, I believe, with Vholes.  Indeed, I know he did, because I introduced him to Vholes.”