LORD LOAM (wrapping himself in his dignity). Come, my dears.
CRICHTON. My lord!
LORD LOAM. Treherne—Ernest—get our things.
ERNEST. We don’t have any, uncle. They all belong to Crichton.
TREHERNE. Everything we have he brought from the wreck—he went back to it before it sank. He risked his life.
CRICHTON. My lord, anything you would care to take is yours.
LADY MARY (quickly). Nothing.
ERNEST. Rot! If I could have your socks, Crichton—
LADY MARY. Come, father; we are ready.
(Followed by the others, she and LORD LOAM pick their way up the rocks. In their indignation they scarcely notice that daylight is coming to a sudden end.)