“Good morning, Marquis,” said Hornblower. “It is a pleasure to present—M. le Marquis de SainteCroix—Lieutenant Bush.”
The Marquis bowed gracefully, and Bush endeavoured to imitate him. But for all that graceful bow, Bush was quite aware of the considering eyes running over him. A lieutenant looking over a likely hand, or a farmer looking at a pig at a fair, might have worn the same expression. Bush guessed that the Marquis was making a mental estimate as to how much Bush might be good for at the card tables, and suddenly became acutely conscious of his shabby uniform. Apparently the Marquis reached the same conclusion as Bush did, but he began a conversation nevertheless.
“A bitter wind,” he said.
“Yes,” said Bush.
“It will be rough in the Channel,” went on the Marquis, politely raising a professional topic.
“Indeed it will,” agreed Bush.
“And no ships will come in from the westward.”
“You can be sure of that.”
The Marquis spoke excellent English. He turned to Hornblower.
“Have you seen Mr. Truelove lately?” he asked.