Page 120 - bleak-house

blowing, the lights and shadows were passing across the
fields, the birds were singing.’
‘Nobody said they warn’t, in MY hearing,’ returned
Coavinses.
‘No,’ observed Mr. Skimpole. ‘But what did you think
upon the road?’
‘Wot do you mean?’ growled Coavinses with an appear-
ance of strong resentment. ‘Think! I’ve got enough to do,
and little enough to get for it without thinking. Thinking!’
(with profound contempt).
‘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 dog-
gedness 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 accompany-
ing 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 sit-
ting at work by the fireside talking to her cousin John. Mr.

120 Bleak House