Isabel and Simon were seated on one of the benches on the after deck. The girl had taken off her cloak and hat and offered to the wind her arms and shoulders, protected only by a cambric blouse. Nothing more beautiful could be imagined than the play of the sunlight on the gold of her hair. Though grave and dreamy, she was radiant with youth and happiness. Simon gazed at her in an ecstasy of admiration: "You don't regret anything, Isabel?" he whispered. "No!" "You're not frightened?" "Why should I be, with you? There is nothing to threaten us." Simon pointed to the sea: "That will, perhaps." "No!" He told her of his conversation with Lord Bakefield on the previous day and of the three conditions upon which they had agreed. She was amused, and asked him: "May I too lay down a condition?" "What condition, Isabel?" "Fidelity," she replied, gravely. "Absolute fidelity. No lapses! I could never forgive anything of that sort." He kissed her hand and said: "There is no love without fidelity. I love you." There were few people around them, for the panic had affected mainly the first-class passengers. But, apart from the two lovers, all those who had persisted in crossing betrayed by some sign their secret uneasiness or their alarm. On the right were two old, very old clergymen, accompanied by a third, a good deal younger. These three remained unmoved, worthy brothers of the heroes who sang hymns on the sinking _Titanic_. Nevertheless, their hands were folded as though in prayer. On the left was the French couple whose conversation Dubosc had overheard. The young father and mother, leaning closely on each other, searched the horizon with fevered eyes. Four boys, the four older children, all strong and robust, their cheeks ruddy with health, were coming and going, in search of information which they immediately brought back with them. A little girl sat crying at her parents' feet, without saying a word. The mother was nursing the sixth child, which from time to time turned to Isabel and smiled at her. Meanwhile, the breeze was growing colder. Simon leant toward his companion: "You're not feeling chilly, Isabel?" he said. "No, I'm used to it. . . ." "Still, though you left your bag below you brought your rug on deck, very wisely. Why don't you undo it?" The rug was still rolled up in its straps; and Isabel had even passed one of the straps around an iron rod, which fastened the bench to the deck, and buckled it. "My bag contains nothing of value," she said. "Nor the rug, I presume?" "Yes, it does." "Really? What?" "A miniature to which my poor mother was very much attached, because it is a portrait of her grandmother painted for George III." "It has just a sentimental value, therefore?" "Oh dear no! My mother had it set in all her finest pearls, which gives it an inestimable value to-day. Thinking of the future, she left me, in this way, a fortune of my own." Simon laughed: "And that's the safe!"