“It’s good to see you,” he said, his hand held out.
“Good to see you, sir,” said Bush.
“Don’t call me ‘sir’,” said Hornblower.
“No, sir? What—why—?”
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 pinholes 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.