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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-bye. Coavinses. You remember our friend Coavinses, Miss Summerson?'

      He asked me, as the subject arose in his mind, in his graceful light-hearted manner, and without the least embarrassment.

      'O yes!' said I.

      'Coavinses has been arrested by the great Bailiff,' said Mr. Skimpole. 'He will never do violence to the sunshine any more.'

      It quite shocked me to hear it; for I had already recalled, with anything but a serious association, the image of the man sitting on the sofa that night, wiping his head.

      'His successor informed me of it yesterday,' said Mr. Skimpole. 'His successor is in my house now – in possession, I think he calls it. He came yesterday, on my blue-eyed daughter's birthday. I put it to him, "This is unreasonable and inconvenient. If you had a blue-eyed daughter you wouldn't like me to come, uninvited, on her birthday?" But he stayed.'

      Mr. Skimpole laughed at the pleasant absurdity, and lightly touched the piano by which he was seated.

      'And he told me,' he said, playing little chords where I shall put full stops, 'That Coavinses had left. Three children. No mother. And that Coavinses' profession. Being unpopular. The rising Coavinses. Were at a considerable disadvantage.'

      Mr. Jarndyce got up, rubbing his head, and began to walk about. Mr. Skimpole played the melody of one of Ada's favourite songs. Ada and I both looked at Mr. Jarndyce, thinking that we knew what was passing in his mind.

      After walking and stopping, and several times leaving off rubbing his head, and beginning again, my guardian put his hand upon the keys and stopped Mr. Skimpole's playing. 'I don't like this, Skimpole,' he said thoughtfully.

      Mr. Skimpole, who had quite forgotten the subject, looked up surprised.

      'The man was necessary,' pursued my guardian, walking backward and forward in the very short space between the piano and the end of the room, and rubbing his hair up from the back of his head as if a high east wind had blown it into that form. 'If we make such men necessary by our faults and follies, or by our want of worldly knowledge, or by our misfortunes, we must not revenge ourselves upon them. There was no harm in his trade. He maintained his children. One would like to know more about this.'

      'O! Coavinses?' cried Mr. Skimpole, at length perceiving what he meant. 'Nothing easier. A walk to Coavinses' headquarters, and you can know what you will.'

      Mr. Jarndyce nodded to us, who were only waiting for the signal. 'Come! We will walk that way, my dears. Why not that way, as soon as another!' We were quickly ready, and went out. Mr. Skimpole went with us, and quite enjoyed the expedition. It was so new and so refreshing, he said, for him to want Coavinses, instead of Coavinses wanting him!

      He took us, first, to Cursitor Street, Chancery Lane, where there was a house with barred windows, which he called Coavinses' Castle. On our going into the entry and ringing a bell, a very hideous boy came out of a sort of office, and looked at us over a spiked wicket.

      'Who did you want?' said the boy, fitting two of the spikes into his chin.

      'There was a follower, or an officer, or something, here,' said Mr. Jarndyce, 'who is dead.'

      'Yes?' said the boy. 'Well?'

      'I want to know his name, if you please?'

      'Name of Neckett,' said the boy.

      'And his address?'

      'Bell Yard,' said the boy. 'Chandler's shop, left hand side, name of Blinder.'

      'Was he – I don't know how to shape the question,' murmured my guardian—'industrious?'

      'Was Neckett?' said the boy. 'Yes, wery much so. He was never tired of watching. He'd set upon a post at a street corner, eight or ten hours at a stretch, if he undertook to do it.'

      'He might have done worse,' I heard my guardian soliloquise. 'He might have undertaken to do it, and not done it. Thank you. That's all I want.'

      We left the boy, with his head on one side, and his arms on the gate, fondling and sucking the spikes; and went back to Lincoln's Inn, where Mr. Skimpole, who had not cared to remain nearer Coavinses, awaited us. Then, we all went to Bell Yard: a narrow alley, at a very short distance. We soon found the chandler's shop. In it, was a good-natured-looking old woman, with a dropsy, or an asthma, or perhaps both.

      'Neckett's children?' said she, in reply to my inquiry. 'Yes, surely, miss. Three pair, if you please. Door right opposite the stairs.' And she handed me the key across the counter.

      I glanced at the key, and glanced at her; but she took it for granted that I knew what to do with it. As it could only be intended for the children's door, I came out, without asking any more questions, and led the way up the dark stairs. We went as quietly as we could, but four of us made some noise on the aged boards; and when we came to the second story, we found we had disturbed a man who was standing there, looking out of his room.

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