She was waiting for him when he arrived at Bond Street, steady of eye and composed of feature, as was to be expected of one of a fighting race. But she could only trust herself to say a single world.

“Orders?” she asked.

“Yes,” answered Hornblower, and then gave vent to some of the powerful mixed emotions within him. “Yes, dear.”

“When?”

“I sail tonight from Spithead. They’re writing my orders now—I must leave as soon as they reach me here.”

“I thought it would be like that, from the look on St. Vincent’s face. So I sent off Brown to Smallbridge to pack your kit. It’ll be ready for you when we get there.”

Capable, farsighted, levelheaded Barbara! Yet “Thank you, dear” was all he could say. There were often these difficult moments even now, after all this time with Barbara; moments when he was overflowing with emotion (maybe that was the reason) and yet could not find words.

“May I ask where you are going, dear?”

“I cannot tell you if you do,” said Hornblower, forcing a smile. “I’m sorry, dear.”

Barbara would say no word to anyone, nor convey by any hint or sign upon what kind of mission he was setting out, but, all the same, he could tell her nothing. Then if news of the mutiny leaked out Barbara could not be held responsible; but that was not the real reason. It was his duty to keep silent, and duty allowed of no exceptions. Barbara smiled back at him with the brightness that duty demanded. She turned her attention to his silken cloak, and draped it more gracefully over his shoulders.

“A pity,” she said, “that in these modern days there are so few opportunities for men to dress beautifully. Crimson and white sets off your good looks, dear. You are a very handsome man—did you know that?”

Then the brittle artificial barrier between them broke and vanished as utterly as a punctured soap bubble.