In the midst of the drawing-room was a great library
table, covered with a mass of papers; and in a chair in front of it
sat Ryder.
Montague had never seen such dreadful suffering upon a human
countenance. The exquisite man of fashion had grown old in a week.
"Mr. Ryder," he began, when they were alone, "I received a letter
from Mrs. Taylor, asking me to come to see you."
"I know," said Ryder. "It was like her; and it is very good of you."
"If there is any way that I can be of assistance," the other began.
But Ryder shook his head. "No," he said; "there is nothing."
"If I could give you my help in straightening out your own
affairs--"
"They are beyond all help," said Ryder. "I have nothing to begin
on--I have not a dollar in the world."
"That is hardly possible," objected Montague.
"It is literally true!" he exclaimed. "I have tried every plan--I
have been over the thing and over it, until I am almost out of my
mind." And he glanced about him at the confusion of papers, and
leaned his forehead in his hands in despair.
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