“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.”