“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.”