“Then you didn’t think, at all events,” proceeded Mr. Skimpole, “to this effect:  ’Harold Skimpole loves to see the sun shine, loves to hear the wind blow, loves to watch the changing lights and shadows, loves to hear the birds, those choristers in Nature’s great cathedral.  And does it seem to me that I am about to deprive Harold Skimpole of his share in such possessions, which are his only birthright!’ You thought nothing to that effect?”

“I—­certainly—­did—­not,” said Coavinses, whose doggedness in utterly renouncing the idea was of that intense kind that he could only give adequate expression to it by putting a long interval between each word, and accompanying the last with a jerk that might have dislocated his neck.

“Very odd and very curious, the mental process is, in you men of business!” said Mr. Skimpole thoughtfully.  “Thank you, my friend.  Good night.”

As our absence had been long enough already to seem strange downstairs, I returned at once and found Ada sitting at work by the fireside talking to her cousin John.  Mr. Skimpole presently appeared, and Richard shortly after him.  I was sufficiently engaged during the remainder of the evening in taking my first lesson in backgammon from Mr. Jarndyce, who was very fond of the game and from whom I wished of course to learn it as quickly as I could in order that I might be of the very small use of being able to play when he had no better adversary.  But I thought, occasionally, when Mr. Skimpole played some fragments of his own compositions or when, both at the piano and the violoncello, and at our table, he preserved with an absence of all effort his delightful spirits and his easy flow of conversation, that Richard and I seemed to retain the transferred impression of having been arrested since dinner and that it was very curious altogether.

It was late before we separated, for when Ada was going at eleven o’clock, Mr. Skimpole went to the piano and rattled hilariously that the best of all ways to lengthen our days was to steal a few hours from night, my dear!  It was past twelve before he took his candle and his radiant face out of the room, and I think he might have kept us there, if he had seen fit, until daybreak.  Ada and Richard were lingering for a few moments by the fire, wondering whether Mrs. Jellyby had yet finished her dictation for the day, when Mr. Jarndyce, who had been out of the room, returned.

“Oh, dear me, what’s this, what’s this!” he said, rubbing his head and walking about with his good-humoured vexation.  “What’s this they tell me?  Rick, my boy, Esther, my dear, what have you been doing?  Why did you do it?  How could you do it?  How much apiece was it?  The wind’s round again.  I feel it all over me!”

We neither of us quite knew what to answer.

“Come, Rick, come!  I must settle this before I sleep.  How much are you out of pocket?  You two made the money up, you know!  Why did you?  How could you?  Oh, Lord, yes, it’s due east—­must be!”