Nor could he stay here outside the coffee-room any longer. He must go back, despite his mental turmoil. He turned and re-entered the room, closing the door behind him.

“It will look well in the Naval Chronicle,” said Mrs Mason, “that the Commander-in-Chief proposed the health of the happy pair. Now, Horatio, some of your guests have empty plates.”

Hornblower was still trying to be a good host when he saw across the room the worried face of the innkeeper again; it called for a second glance to see what had caused him to come in. He was ushering in Hornblower’s new coxwain, Hewitt, a very short man who escaped observation across the room. Hewitt made up in breadth a good deal of what he lacked in height, and he sported a magnificent pair of glossy black side-whiskers in the style which was newly fashionable on the lower-deck. He came rolling across the room, his straw hat in his hand, and, knuckling his forehead, gave Horatio a note. The address was in Bush’s handwriting and in the correct phrasing, although now a lithe old-fashioned—Horatio Hornblower, Esq., Master and Commander. Silence fell on the assembled company—a little rudely, Hornblower thought—as he read the few lines.

“Is the boat at the Hard?” demanded Hornblower.

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well. I’ll be there in five minutes.”