"Impossible!"
"But I am," replies Byng doggedly; "it will not do her any injury, for I shall not attempt to go in, I shall only ask at the door whether any telegram has yet been received from—from them; they must telegraph to direct where their things are to be sent to, and it is most probable that they have done so already."
"It is most improbable."
"Well, at all events, it is possible, it is worth trying, and I mean to try it."
There is such a fixed resolution in his voice, which is no longer quavering with sobs, and in his ashy face, that Jim offers no further resistance. The only concession he can obtain from him is that of permitting him to accompany him.
"You will not mind coming with me to the Anglo-Américain first, will you?" inquires Jim, as they set off walking across the Piazza.
"It will delay us quite half-an-hour," answers the other restlessly. "But stay" (a hazy look of reminiscence dawning over his preoccupied haggard face), "did you tell me that Amelia was ill—or did I dream it?"
"No, you did not dream it," replies the other sadly. "She is ill."
Perhaps the wretchedness that pierces through his friend's quiet tones recalls the young dreamer to the fact that the world holds other miseries than his own. There is at all events something of his old quick sympathy in his next words, and in the way in which they are uttered:
"Oh, poor Amelia, I am sorry! By all means let us go at once and ask after her. Is there nothing that we can get?—nothing that we can do for her?"