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 of the intention of my being, and a monstrous thing to do—why should I go anywhere to be the cause of pain? If I went to see our young friends in their present ill-regulated state of mind, I should give them pain. The associations with me would be disagreeable. They might say, ‘this is the man who had pounds, and who can't pay pounds,’ which I can't, of course; nothing could be more out of the question! Then, kindness requires that I shouldn't go near them—and I won't.”

He finished by genially kissing my hand, and thanking me. Nothing but Miss Summerson's fine tact, he said, would have found this out for him.

I was much disconcerted; but I reflected that if the main point were gained, it mattered little how strangely he perverted everything leading to it. I had determined to mention something else, however, and I thought I was not to be put off in that.

“Mr. Skimpole,” said I, “I must take the liberty of saying, before I conclude my visit, that I was much surprised to learn, on the best authority, some little time ago, that you knew with whom that poor boy left Bleak House, and that you accepted a present on that occasion. I have not mentioned it to my guardian, for I fear it would hurt him unnecessarily; but I may say to you that I was much surprised.”

“No? Really surprised, my dear Miss Summerson?” he returned, inquiringly, raising his pleasant eyebrows.

“Greatly surprised.”

He thought about it for a little while, with a highly agreeable and whimsical expression of lace; then quite gave it up, and said, in his most engaging manner:

“You know what a child I am. Why surprised?”

I was reluctant to enter minutely into that question; but as he begged I would, for he was really curious to know, I gave him to understand, in the gentlest words I could use, that his conduct seemed to involve a disregard of several moral obligations. He was much amused and interested when he heard this, and said, “No, really?” with ingenuous simplicity.

“You know I don't pretend to be responsible. I never could do it. Responsibility is a thing that has always been above me—or below me,” said Mr. Skimpole, “I don't even know which; but, as I understand the way in which my dear Miss Summerson (always remarkable for her practical good sense and clearness) puts this case, I should imagine it was chiefly a question of money, do you know?”

I incautiously gave a qualified assent to this.

“Ah! Then you see,” said Mr. Skimpole, shaking his head, “I am hopeless of understanding it.”

I suggested, as I rose to go, that it was not right to betray my guardian's confidence for a bribe.

“My dear Miss Summerson,” he returned, with a candid hilarity that was all his own, “I can't be bribed.”

“Not by Mr. Bucket?” said I.

“No,” said he. “Not by anybody. I don't attach any value to money. I don't care about it, I don't know about it, I don't want it, I don't keep it—it goes away from me directly. How can I be bribed?”