“Sir William, ladies and gentlemen, I can only thank you in the name of”—Hornblower reached down and took Maria’s hand—“my wife and myself.”

As the laughter died away—Hornblower had well known that the company would laugh at his mention of Maria as his wife, although he himself did not think it a subject for laughter—Cornwallis looked at his watch, and Hornblower hastened to thank him for his presence and to escort him to the door. Beyond the threshold Cornwallis turned and thumped him on the chest with his large hand.

“I’ll add another line to my orders for you,” he said; Hornblower was acutely aware that Cornwallis’s friendly smile was accompanied by a searching glance.

“Yes, sir?”

“I’ll add my written permission for you to sleep out of your ship for tonight and tomorrow night.”

Hornblower opened his mouth to reply, but no words came; for once in his life his readiness of wit had deserted him. His mind was so busy reassessing the situation that it had nothing to spare for his organ of speech.

“I thought you might have forgotten,” said Cornwallis, grinning. “Hotspur’s part of the Channel fleet now. Her captain is forbidden by law to sleep anywhere except on board without the permission of the Commander-in-Chief. Well, you have it.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Hornblower, at last able to articulate.

“Maybe you won’t sleep ashore again for a couple of years. Maybe more than that, if Boney fights it out.”

“I certainly think he’ll fight, sir.”

“In that case you and I will meet again off Ushant in three weeks’ time. So now good-bye, once more.”

For some time after Cornwallis had left Hornblower stood by the half-closed door of the coffee-room in deep thought, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, which was the nearest he could get to pacing up and down. War was coming; he had always been certain of that, because Bonaparte would never retreat from the position he had taken up.