of them he is generally carrying: they are all young and happy: he is
dressed always in a grey knickerbocker suit--with a camera slung over
his shoulder. I have not seen any of them since that afternoon.

Close beside me--so near that I cannot avoid hearing scraps of their
conversation--are two American ladies, both dressed in white, young,
probably friends only: one has been to India and is returning by way
of England, the other is a school-teacher in America, a graceful girl
with a distinguished air heightened by a pair of _pince-nez_.
Engaged in conversation with them is a gentleman whom I subsequently
identified from a photograph as a well-known resident of Cambridge,
Massachusetts, genial, polished, and with a courtly air towards the
two ladies, whom he has known but a few hours; from time to time as
they talk, a child acquaintance breaks in on their conversation and
insists on their taking notice of a large doll clasped in her arms; I
have seen none of this group since then. In the opposite corner are
the young American kinematograph photographer and his young wife,
evidently French, very fond of playing patience, which she is doing
now, while he sits back in his chair watching the game and interposing
from time to time with suggestions. I did not see them again. In the
middle of the room are two Catholic priests, one quietly
reading,--either English or Irish, and probably the latter,--the
other, dark, bearded, with broad-brimmed hat, talking earnestly to a
friend in German and evidently explaining some verse in the open Bible
before him; near them a young fire engineer on his way to Mexico, and
of the same religion as the rest of the group. None of them were
saved. It may be noted here that the percentage of men saved in the
second-class is the lowest of any other division--only eight per cent.

Many other faces recur to thought, but it is impossible to describe