On reaching the Minerva, he finds that Byng has not yet returned, or rather that he has been in and gone out again. He waits dinner half-an-hour for him, and then dines without him; dines in solitude, since it is not till his cup of coffee is before him, and his cigarette between his lips, that his young friend appears. It is evidently no unpleasant errand that has detained him, for he arrives beaming, and too excited even to perceive the _menu_ which a waiter offers him. "They have arrived!" he cries. Oddly enough it never occurs to Burgoyne to inquire who "they" may be; it seems as much a matter-of-course to him as to the handsome pink and white boy before him, that the pronoun must relate to Elizabeth Le Marchant and her mother. His only answer, however, is an "Oh!" whose tone is rather more eagerly interested than he could have wished. "I thought that they could not stay more than another day in Genoa," continues Byng, at length becoming aware of the _menu_ at his elbow; but only to wave it impatiently away. "So I thought I would just run down to the station to meet the evening train, the one we came by last night; however, it must have been more punctual than yesterday, for before I reached the station, I met them; I mean they passed me in a fiacre. I only caught a glimpse of her face, but I saw her hand; it was lying on the carriage door like a snow-flake." "Like my grandmother!" cries Burgoyne in a rage, for which he cannot quite account to himself, at this ingenious and novel simile. Byng laughs; the laugh of a thoroughly sweet-natured person, who, in addition, has some special cause for good-humour. "I do not know what colour your grandmother was; but she must have been very unlike most people's if she was like a snow-flake." Jim's cross mouth unbends into a reluctant smile. It is not the first time that he has discovered how useless, and also impossible, it is to be out of humour with Byng. "I had a good mind to tell my fiacre man to follow them," continued Byng, in an excited voice; "but, in the first place, I did not know how to say it--really, Jim, we must get up a little of the lingo--and, in the second place, I thought it would perhaps be rather too much in the private detective line." "I think it would have been extremely ungentlemanlike!" rejoins Jim severely. Byng reddens; but still without losing his temper. "That is coming it rather strong, is not it? but anyhow, I did not do it." And then, by tacit agreement, they both drop the subject.