On deck there was little fun to be seen; nor was there any sign of danger. For the most part the explorers wandered aimlessly about or stood by the rail, staring into the empty night for some clue to the trouble. The Titanic lay dead in the water, three of her four huge funnels blowing off steam with a roar that shattered the quiet, starlit night. Otherwise everything was normal. Towards the stern of the boat deck an elderly couple strolled arm in arm, oblivious of the roaring steam and the little knots of passengers roving about.

It was so bitterly cold, and there was so little to be seen, that most of the people came inside again. Entering the magnificent foyer on A deck, they found others who had risen but preferred to stay inside where it was warm.

Mingling together, they made a curious picture. Their dress was an odd mixture of bathrobes, evening clothes, fur coats, turtle-neck sweaters. The setting was equally incongruous—the huge glass dome overhead… the dignified oak panelling… the magnificent balustrades with their wrought-iron scrollwork… and, looking down on them all, an incredible wall clock adorned with two bronze nymphs, somehow symbolizing Honour and Glory crowning Time.

‘Oh, it’ll be a few hours and we’ll be on the way again,’ a steward vaguely explained to first-class passenger George Harder.

‘Looks like we’ve lost a propeller, but it’ll give us more time for bridge,’ called Howard Case, the London manager of Vacuum Oil, to Fred Seward, a New York lawyer. Perhaps Mr Case got his theory from steward Johnson, still contemplating a sojourn in Belfast. In any event, most of the passengers had better information by this time.

‘What do you think?’ exclaimed Harvey Collyer to his wife, as he returned to their cabin from a tour around the deck.