Hornblower had no greatcoat on; and his left shoulder was bare of the epaulette he should have worn as a commander. Bush’s eyes went to it automatically. He could see the old pin‑holes in the material which showed where the epaulette had once been fastened.
“I’m not a commander,” said Hornblower. “They didn’t confirm my appointment.”
“Good God!”
Hornblower’s face was unnaturally white — Bush was accustomed to seeing it deeply tanned — and his cheeks were hollow, but his expression was set in the old unrevealing cast that Bush remembered so well.
“Preliminaries of peace were signed the day I took Retribution into Plymouth,” said Hornblower.
“What infernal luck!” said Bush.
Lieutenants waited all their lives for the fortunate combination of circumstances that might bring them promotion, and most of them waited in vain. It was more than likely now Hornblower would wait in vain for the rest of his life.
“Have you applied for an appointment as lieutenant?” asked Bush.
“Yes. And I suppose you have?” replied Hornblower.
“Yes.”
There was no need to say more than that on that subject. The peacetime navy employed one‑tenth of the lieutenants who were employed in wartime; to receive an appointment one had to be of vast seniority or else have powerful friends.
“I spent a month in London,” said Hornblower. “There was always a crowd round the Admiralty and the Navy Office.”
“I expect so,” said Bush.
The wind came shrieking round the corner.
“God, but it’s cold!” said Bush.
His mind toyed with the thought of various ways to continue the conversation in shelter. If they went to the Keppel’s Head now it would mean paying for two pints of beer, and Hornblower would have to pay for the same.
“I’m going into the Long Rooms just here,” said Hornblower. “Come in with me — or are you busy?”
“No. I’m not busy,” said Bush, doubtfully, “but —”
“Oh, it’s all right,” said Hornblower. “Come on.”
There was reassurance in the confident way in which Hornblower spoke about the Long Rooms. Bush only knew of them by reputation. They were frequented by officers of the navy and the army with money to spare. Bush had heard much about the high stakes that were indulged in at play there, and about the elegance of the refreshments offered by the proprietor. If Hornblower could speak thus casually about the Long Rooms he could not be as desperately hard up as he seemed to be. They crossed the street and Hornblower held open the door and ushered him through. It was a long oak‑panelled room; the gloom of the outer day was made cheerful here by the light of candles, and a magnificent fire flamed on the hearth. In the centre several card tables with chairs round them stood ready for play; the ends of the room were furnished as comfortable lounges. A servant in a green baize apron was making the room tidy, and came to take their hats and Bush’s coat as they entered.
“Good morning, sir,” he said.
“Good morning, Jenkins,” said Hornblower.
He walked with unconcealed haste over to the fire and stood before it warming himself Bush saw that his teeth were chattering.
“A bad day to be out without your pea‑jacket,” he said.
“Yes,” said Hornblower.
He clipped that affirmative a little short, so that in a minute degree it failed to be an indifferent, flat agreement. It was that which caused Bush to realise that it was not eccentricity or absent‑mindedness that had brought Hornblower out into a black frost without his greatcoat. Bush looked at Hornblower sharply, and he might even have asked a tactless question if he had not been forestalled by the opening of an inner door beside them. A short, plump, but exceedingly elegant gentleman came in; he was dressed in the height of fashion, save that he wore his hair long, tied back and with powder in the style of the last generation. This made his age hard to guess. He looked at the pair of them with keen dark eyes.
“Good morning, Marquis,” said Hornblower. “It is a pleasure to present — M. le Marquis de Sainte‑Croix — Lieutenant Bush.”