“Aye aye, sir,” said Bush, and with that he was gone.

Here came the others, pouring in, and any trace of awkwardness about the party disappeared as Mrs Mason marshalled the guests and set the wedding breakfast into its stride. Corks popped and preliminary toasts were drunk. There was the cake to be cut, and Mrs Mason insisted that Maria should make the first cut with Hornblower’s sword; Mrs Mason was sure that in this Maria would be following the example of naval brides in good society in London. Hornblower was not so sure; he had lived for ten years under a strict convention that cold steel should never be drawn under a roof or a deck. But his timid objections were swept away, and Maria, the sword in both hands, cut the cake amid general applause. Hornblower could hardly restrain his impatience to take the thing back from her, and he quickly wiped the sugar icing from the blade, wondering grimly what the assembled company would think if they knew he had once wiped human blood from it. He was still engaged on this work when he became aware of the innkeeper whispering hoarsely at his side.

“Begging your pardon, sir. Begging your pardon.”

“Well?”

“The Admiral’s compliments, sir, and he would be glad to see you when you find it convenient.”

Hornblower stood sword in hand, staring at him in momentary uncomprehension.

“The Admiral, sir. ‘E’s in the first floor front, what we always calls the Admiral’s Room.”

“You mean Sir William, of course?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well. My respects to the Admiral and—No, I’ll go up at once. Thank you.”

“Thank’ee, sir. Begging your pardon again.”

Hornblower shot his sword back into its sheath and looked round at the company. They were watching the maid bustling round handing slices of wedding cake and had no eyes for him at present. He settled his sword at his side, twitched at his neckcloth, and unobtrusively left the room, picking up his hat as he did so.