Leaning over the parapet near the Ponte Vecchio, Burgoyne soon discovers a familiar figure, a figure which starts when he touches its arm.
"I thought I would wait about here for an hour or so," says Byng, with a rather guilty air of apology, "until I could go back and inquire again. The telegram has not arrived yet—I suppose it is too early. Of course they would not telegraph until they get in to-night. You do not think"—with a look of almost terror—"that they are going through to England, and that they will not telegraph till they get there?"
"How can I tell?"
"There is nothing in the world less likely," cries Byng feverishly, irritated at not having drawn forth the reassurance he had hoped for. "I do not for a moment believe that they have gone home; I feel convinced that they are still in Italy! Why should they leave it, when they—when she is so fond of it?"
Jim looks down sadly at the calm, strong stream.
"I do not know, I cannot give an opinion—I have no clue."
"I will ask again in about an hour," says Byng, lifting his arms from the parapet, "in an hour it is pretty certain to have arrived; and meanwhile, I thought I would just stroll about the town, but there is no reason—none at all—why I should keep you! You—you must be wanting to go back to Amelia."
He glances at his friend in a nervous, sidelong way, as he makes this suggestion.
"I am not going back again to-night," replies Jim quietly, without giving any evidence of an intention to acquiesce in his dismissal. "There is nothing that I can do for her—there is nothing to be done."
His tone, in making this statement, must be yet more dreary than he is aware, as it arouses even Byng's self-absorbed attention.