“You’re leaving us now, sir?” piped the old woman coming into the coffee-room.

“Yes. Madam will settle the score when she returns,” said Hornblower; he fumbled out half a crown from his pocket and put it on the table.

“Thank you kindly, sir. And a good voyage, and prize money galore.” The sing-song tone reminded Hornblower that she must have seen naval officers by the hundreds leaving the George to go to sea—her memories must go back to Hawke and Boscawen.

He buttoned up his coat and took up his bag.

“I’ll have the ostler come with us with a lantern to escort you back,” he said, consideringly.

“Oh, no please, darling. It’s so short a way, and I know every step,” pleaded Maria, and there was enough truth in what she said for him not to insist.

They walked out into the keen cold air, having to adjust their eyes to the darkness even after the miserable light of the coffee-room. Hornblower realized that if he had been an Admiral or even a distinguished Captain, he would never have been allowed to leave with so little ceremony; the innkeeper and his wife would certainly have risen and dressed to see him on his way. They turned the corner and started on the steep slope down to the Sally Port, and it was borne in anew on Hornblower that he was about to start out for the wars. His concern for Maria had actually distracted him from this thought, but now he found himself gulping with excitement.

“Dear,” said Maria. “I have a little present for you.”

She was bringing something out from the pocket of her cloak and pressing it into his hand.

“It’s only gloves, dear, but my love comes with them,” she went on. “I could make nothing better for you in this little time. I would have liked to have embroidered something for you—I would have liked to give you something worthy of you. But I have been stitching at these every moment since—since—”