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