Sarah took Harriet to bed early. Julian had got hold of his Plutarch again, and read snatches of it aloud every now and then. His uncle paid no heed, was sunk in dull reverie. When they had sat thus for more than an hour, Mr. Smales began to exhibit a wish to talk.
"Put the book away, and draw up to the fire, my boy," he said, with as near an approach to heartiness as he was capable of. "It's Christmas time, and Christmas only comes once a year."
He rubbed his palms together, then began to twist the corners of his handkerchief.
"Well, Julian," he went on, leaning feebly forward to the fire, "a year more school, I suppose, and then—business; what?"
"Yes, uncle."
The boy spoke cheerfully, but yet not in the same natural way as before.
"I wish I could afford to make you something better, my lad; you ought to be something better by rights. And I don't well know what you'll find to do in this little shop. The business might be better; yes, might be better. You won't have much practice in dispensing, I'm afraid, unless things improve. It is mostly hair-oil,—and the patent medicines. It's a poor look-out for you, Julian."
There was a silence.
"Harriet isn't quite well yet, is she?" Smales went on, half to himself.
"No, she looked poorly to-night."