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about with it; it’s all the wind—invariably has that effect—I
won’t press you, Rick; you may be right. But really—to get
hold of you and Esther—and to squeeze you like a couple of
tender young Saint Michael’s oranges! It’ll blow a gale in the
course of the night!’
He was now alternately putting his hands into his pock-
ets as if he were going to keep them there a long time, and
taking them out again and vehemently rubbing them all
over his head.
I ventured to take this opportunity of hinting that Mr.
Skimpole, being in all such matters quite a child—
‘Eh, my dear?’ said Mr. Jarndyce, catching at the word.
Being quite a child, sir,’ said I, ‘and so different from oth-
er people—‘
‘You are right!’ said Mr. Jarndyce, brightening. ‘Your
woman’s wit hits the mark. He is a child—an absolute child.
I told you he was a child, you know, when I first mentioned
him.’
Certainly! Certainly! we said.
‘And he IS a child. Now, isn’t he?’ asked Mr. Jarndyce,
brightening more and more.
He was indeed, we said.
‘When you come to think of it, it’s the height of child-
ishness in you—I mean me—‘ said Mr. Jarodyce, ‘to regard
him for a moment as a man. You can’t make HIM respon-
sible. The idea of Harold Skimpole with designs or plans, or
knowledge of consequences! Ha, ha, ha!’
It was so delicious to see the clouds about his bright face
clearing, and to see him so heartily pleased, and to know, as

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