“Eating alone gives one bad habits,” he said — and the best proof of his embarrassment was the lameness of his explanation.
He was aware of that, as soon as he had spoken, and he tried to carry it off by leaning back on his bench in a superior fashion; and to show how much at ease he was he thrust his hands into the side pockets of his coat. As he did so his whole expression changed. He lost some of the little colour there was in his cheeks. There was utter consternation in his expression — there was even fear. Bush took instant alarm; he thought Hornblower must have had a seizure, and it was only after that first thought that he connected Hornblower’s changed appearance with his gesture of putting his hands in his pockets. But a man who had found a snake in his pocket would hardly wear that look of horror.
“What’s the matter?” asked Bush. “What in God’s name — ?”
Hornblower slowly drew his right hand out of his pocket. He kept it closed for a moment round what it held, and then he opened it, slowly, reluctantly, like a man fearful of his destiny. Harmless enough; it was a silver coin — a half crown.
“That’s nothing to take on about,” said Bush, quite puzzled. “I wouldn’t even mind finding a half crown in my pocket.”
“But — but —” stammered Hornblower, and Bush began to realise some of the implications.
“It wasn’t there this morning,” said Hornblower, and then he smiled the old bitter smile. “I know too well what money I have in my pockets.”
“I suppose you do,” agreed Bush; but even now, with his mind going back through the events of the morning, and making the obvious deductions, he could not understand quite why Hornblower should be so worried. “That wench put it there?”
“Yes. Maria,” said Hornblower. “It must have been her. That’s why she took my coat to sponge it.”
“She’s a good soul,” said Bush.
“Oh God!” said Hornblower. “But I can’t — I can’t —”
“Why not?” asked Bush, and he really thought that question unanswerable.
“No,” said Hornblower. “It’s — it’s — I wish she hadn’t done it. The poor girl —”
“‘Poor girl’ be blowed!” said Bush. “She’s only trying to do you a good turn.”
Hornblower looked at him for a long time without speaking, and then he made a little hopeless gesture as though despairing of ever making Bush see the matter from his point of view.
“You can look like that if you like,” said Bush, steadily, determined to stick to his guns, “but there’s no need to act as if the French had landed just because a girl slips half a crown into your pocket.”
“But don’t you see —” began Hornblower, and then he finally abandoned all attempt at explanation. Under Bush’s puzzled gaze he mastered himself. The unhappiness left his face, and he assumed his old inscrutable look — it was as if he had shut down the vizor of a helmet over his face.
“Very well,” he said. “We’ll make the most of it, by God!”
Then he rapped on the table:
“Boy!”
“Yessir.”
“We’ll have a pint of wine. Let someone run and fetch it at once. A pint of wine — port wine.”
“Yessir.”
“And what’s the pudding today?”
“Currant duff, sir.”
“Good. We’ll have some. Both of us. And let’s have a saucer of jam to spread on it.”
“Yessir.”
“And we’ll need cheese before our wine. Is there any cheese in the house, or must you send out for some?”
“There’s some in the house, sir.”
“Then put it on the table.”
“Yessir.”
Now was it not, thought Bush, exactly what might be expected of Hornblower that he should push away the half of his huge slice of currant duff unfinished? And he only had a nibble of cheese, hardly enough to clear his palate. He raised his glass, and Bush followed his example.
“To a lovely lady,” said Hornblower.
They drank, and now there was an irresponsible twinkle in Hornblower’s eyes that worried Bush even while he told himself that he was tired of Hornblower’s tantrums. He decided to change the subject, and he prided himself on the tactful way in which he did so.