“Oh, no,” said Maria. “I have your breakfast to attend to—only the old woman is up as yet.”

She coaxed him into the chair. Hornblower felt her kiss the top of his head, felt a momentary touch of her cheek against his, but before he could seize her, reaching behind him, she was gone. She left behind her the memory of something between a sniff and a sob; the opening of the door into the kitchen admitted a smell of cooking, the sizzling of something in a pan, and a momentary burst of conversation between Maria and the old woman. Then in came Maria, her rapid steps indicating that the plate she held was too hot to be comfortable. She dropped it in front of him, a vast rump steak, still sizzling on the plate.

“There, dear,” she said, and busied herself with putting the rest of the meal within his reach, while Hornblower looked down at the steak with some dismay.

“I picked that out for you specially yesterday,” she announced proudly. “I walked over to butcher’s while you were on the ship.”

Hornblower steeled himself not to wince at hearing a naval officer’s wife speak about being ‘on’ a ship; he also had to steel himself to having steak for breakfast, when steak was by no means his favourite dish, and when he was so excited that he felt he could eat nothing. And dimly he could foresee a future—if ever he returned, if ever, inconceivably, he settled down in domestic life—when steak would be put before him on any special occasion. That thought was the last straw; he felt he could not eat a mouthful, and yet he could not hurt Maria’s feelings.

“Where’s yours?” he asked, temporizing.

“Oh, I shan’t be having any steak,” replied Maria. The tone of her voice proved that it was quite inconceivable to her that a wife should eat equally well as her husband. Hornblower raised his voice and turned his head.

“Hey, there!” he called. “In the kitchen! Bring another plate—a hot one.”