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."

"Julian," began the other, but paused, rubbing his hands more
nervously than ever.

"Yes, uncle?"