Mrs Skimpole sighed, I thought, as if she would have been glad to strike out this item in the family attainments. I also thought that she rather impressed her sigh upon my guardian, and that she took every opportunity of throwing in another.

“It is pleasant,” said Mr Skimpole, turning his sprightly eyes from one to the other of us, “and it is whimsically interesting, to trace peculiarities in families. In this family we are all children, and I am the youngest.”

The daughters, who appeared to be very fond of him, were amused by this droll fact; particularly the Comedy daughter.

“My dears, it is true,” said Mr Skimpole, “is it not? So it is, and so it must be, because, like the dogs in the hymn, ‘it is our nature to.’ Now, here is Miss Summerson with a fine administrative capacity, and a knowledge of details perfectly surprising. It will sound very strange in Miss Summerson’s ears, I dare say, that we know nothing about chops in this house. But we don’t; not the least. We can’t cook anything whatever. A needle and thread we don’t know how to use. We admire the people who possess the practical wisdom we want; but we don’t quarrel with them. Then why should they quarrel with us? Live and let live, we say to them. Live upon your practical wisdom, and let us live upon you!”

He laughed, but, as usual, seemed quite candid, and really to mean what he said.

“We have sympathy, my roses,” said Mr Skimpole, “sympathy for everything. Have we not?”

“O yes, papa!” cried the three daughters.

“In fact, that is our family department,” said Mr Skimpole, “in this hurly-burly of life. We are capable of looking on and of being interested, and we do look on, and we are interested. What more can we do! Here is my Beauty daughter, married these three years. Now, I dare say her marrying another child, and having two more, was all wrong in point of political economy; but it was very agreeable. We had our little festivities on those occasions, and exchanged social ideas. She brought her young husband home one day, and they and their young fledglings have their nest up-stairs. I dare say, at some time or other, Sentiment and Comedy will bring their husbands home, and have their nests up-stairs too. So we get on; we don’t know how, but somehow.”

She looked very young indeed, to be the mother of two children; and I could not help pitying both her and them. It was evident that the three daughters had grown up as they could, and had had just as little hap-hazard instruction as qualified them to be their father’s playthings in his idlest hours. His pictorial tastes were consulted, I observed, in their respective styles of wearing their hair; the Beauty daughter being in the classic manner; the Sentiment daughter luxuriant and flowing; and the Comedy daughter in the arch style, with a good deal of sprightly forehead, and vivacious little curls dotted about the corners of her eyes. They were dressed to correspond, though in a most untidy and negligent way.

Ada and I conversed with these young ladies, and found them wonderfully like their father. In the meanwhile Mr Jarndyce (who had been rubbing his head to a great extent, and hinting at a change in the wind) talked with Mrs Skimpole in a corner, where we could not help hearing the chink of money. Mr Skimpole had previously volunteered to go home with us, and had withdrawn to dress himself for the purpose.

“My roses,” he said, when he came back, “take care of mama. She is poorly to-day. By going home with Mr Jarndyce for a day or two, I shall hear the larks sing, and preserve my amiability. It has been tried, you know, and would be tried again if I remained at home.”

“That bad man!” said the Comedy daughter.

“At the very time when he knew papa was lying down by his wall-flowers, looking at the blue sky,” Laura complained.