at hand; not the Christmas next after the autumn of Lord Ongar's
marriage, but the following Christmas, and Harry Clavering had finished
his studies in Mr. Burton's office. He flattered himself that he had not
been idle while he was there, and was now about to commence his more
advanced stage of pupilage, under the great Mr. Beilby, in London, with
hopes which were still good, if they were not so magnificent as they
once had been.

When he first saw Mr. Burton in his office, and beheld the dusty
pigeonholes with dusty papers, and caught the first glimpse of things as
they really were in the workshop of that man of business, he had, to say
the truth, been disgusted. And Mrs. Burton's early dinner, and Florence
Burton's "plain face" and plain ways, had disconcerted him. On that day
he had repented of his intention with regard to Stratton; but he had
carried out his purpose like a man, and now he rejoiced greatly that he
had done so. He rejoiced greatly, though his hopes were somewhat
sobered, and his views of life less grand than they had been. He was to
start for Clavering early on the following morning, intending to spend
his Christmas at home, and we will see him and listen to him as he bade
farewell to one of the members of Mr. Burton's family.

He was sitting in a small hack parlor in Mr. Burton's house, and on the
table of the room there was burning a single candle. It was a dull,
dingy, brown room, furnished with horsehair-covered chairs, an old
horsehair sofa and heavy, rusty curtains. I don't know that there was in
the room any attempt at ornament, as certainly there was no evidence of
wealth. It was now about seven o'clock in the evening, and tea was over
in Mrs. Burton's establishment. Harry Clavering had had his tea, and had
eaten his hot muffin, at the further side from the fire of the family
table, while Florence had poured out the tea, and Mrs. Burton had sat by