‘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 would be no good to me.’
He paused, biting his under lip and staring with hard eyes into the fire.
‘Read that,’ he said at length, and handed Conyngham a cutting from a daily newspaper.