d 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!"

"Yes, that's the safe!" she said, joining in his laughter. "The
miniature is pinned to the middle of the rug, between the straps where
no one would think of looking for it. You're laughing, but I am
superstitious where that miniature is concerned. It's a sort of
talisman. . . ."

For some time they spoke no further. The coast had disappeared from
sight. The swell was increasing and the _Queen Mary_ was rolling a
little.

At this moment they were passing a beautiful white yacht.

"That's the Comte de Bauge's _Castor_," cried one of the four boys.
"She's on her way to Dieppe."

Two ladies and two gentlemen were lunching under an awning, Isabel
bowed her head so as to hide her face.

This thoughtless movement displeased her; for, a moment later, she
said (and all the words which they exchanged during these few minutes
were to