(She takes his hands, which have gone cold.)
LADY MARY. Father. Don’t you see, they have all rushed down to the beach? Come.
LORD LOAM. Rushed down to the beach; yes, always that—I often dream it.
LADY MARY. Come, father, come.
LORD LOAM. Only a dream, my poor girl.
(CRICHTON returns. He is pale but firm.)
CRICHTON. We can see lights within a mile of the shore—a great ship.
LORD LOAM. A ship—always a ship.
LADY MARY. Father, this is no dream.
LORD LOAM (looking timidly at CRICHTON). It’s a dream, isn’t it? There’s no ship?