“No, angel, darling. No, I mustn’t keep you. You would be angry with me—afterwards. Oh, my dear life, say goodbye to me now. Say that you love me—say that you’ll always love me. Then say good-bye, and say that you’ll think of me sometimes as I shall always think of you.”

Hornblower said the words, the right words, and in his tenderness he used the right tone. Maria kissed him once more, and then tore herself free and flung herself on to the far side of the bed face downward. Hornblower lay still, trying to harden his heart to rise, and Maria spoke again; her voice was half muffled by the pillow, but her forced change of mood was apparent even so.

“Your clean shirt’s on the chair, dear, and your second-best shoes are beside the fireplace.”

Hornblower flung himself out of bed and out through the curtains. The air of the bedroom was certainly fresher than that inside. The door latch choked again and he had just time to whip his bedgown in front of him as the old chambermaid put her head in. She let out a high cackle of mirth at Hornblower’s modesty.

“The ostler says ‘light airs from the s’uth’ard,’ sir.”

“Thank you.”

The door closed behind her.

“Is that what you want, darling?” asked Maria, still behind the curtains. “Light airs from the s’uth’ard—that means south, does it not?”

“Yes, it may serve,” said Hornblower, hurrying over to the wash basin and adjusting the candles so as to illuminate his face.

Light airs from the south now, at the end of March, were hardly likely to endure. They might back or they might veer, but would certainly strengthen with the coming of day. If Hotspur handled as well as he believed she would he could weather the Foreland and be ready for the next development, with plenty of sea room.