'What is it?'

'I don't know yet; ruin, I think.'

'Nonsense, man!' said Conyngham cheerily. 'There is no such thing
in this world. At least, the jolliest fellows I know are bankrupts,
or no better. Look at me: never a brief; literary contributions
returned with thanks; balance at the bank, seventeen pounds ten
shillings; balance in hand, none; debts, the Lord only knows! Look
at me! I'm happy enough.'

'Yes, you're a lonely devil.'

Conyngham looked at his friend with inquiry in his gay eyes.

'Ah! perhaps so. I live alone, if that is what you mean. But as
for being lonely--no, hang it! I have plenty of friends, especially
at dividend time.'

'You have nobody depending on you,' said Horner with the
irritability of sorrow.

'Because nobody is such a fool. On the other hand, I have nobody to
care a twopenny curse what becomes of me. Same thing, you see, in
the end. Come, man, cheer up. Tell me what is wrong. Seventeen
pounds ten shillings is not exactly wealth, but if you want it you
know it is there, eh?'

'I do not want it, thanks,' replied the other. 'Seventeen hundred