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I gathered from the conversation that Mr. Skimpole had been educated for
the medical profession and had once lived, in his professional capacity, in
the household of a German prince. He told us, however, that as he had always
been a mere child in point of weights and measures and had never known
anything about them (except that they disgusted him), he had never been able
to prescribe with the requisite accuracy of detail. In fact, he said, he had
no head for detail. And he told us, with great humour, that when he was
wanted to bleed the prince or physic any of his people, he was generally
found lying on his back in bed, reading the newspapers or making
fancy-sketches in pencil, and couldn't come. The prince, at last, objecting
to this, "in which," said Mr. Skimpole, in the frankest manner, "he was
perfectly right," the engagement terminated, and Mr. Skimpole having (as he
added with delightful gaiety) "nothing to live upon but love, fell in love,
and married, and surrounded himself with rosy cheeks." His good friend
Jarndyce and some other of his good friends then helped him, in quicker or
slower succession, to several openings in life, but to no purpose, for he
must confess to two of the oldest infirmities in the world: one was that he
had no idea of time, the other that he had no idea of money. In consequence
of which he never kept an appointment, never could transact any business,
and never knew the value of anything. Well. So he had got on in life, and
here he was. He was very fond of reading the papers, very fond of making
fancy-sketches with a pencil, very fond of nature, very fond of art. All he
asked of society was to let him live. THAT wasn't much. His wants were few.
Give him the papers, conversation, music, mutton, coffee, landscape, fruit
in the season, a few sheets of Bristol-board, and a little claret, and he
asked no more. He was a mere child in the world, but he didn't cry for the
moon. He said to the world, "Go your several ways in peace. Wear red coats,
blue coats, lawn sleeves; put pens behind your ears, wear aprons; go after
glory, holiness, commerce, trade, any object you prefer; only--let Harold
Skimpole live." 



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"Who?" 
"Oh, it doesn't matter much. One of them. Only not Mac. I'm too fond of
him."