“It may be war,” he said, slowly.
“War!” said Bush.
“We’ll know when the mail comes in,” said Hornblower. “Party could have told us last night, I fancy.”
“But—war!” said Bush.
The crowd went on down the street towards the dockyard, its noise dwindling with the increasing distance, and Hornblower turned towards the street door, taking the ponderous key out of his pocket. When they entered the house they saw Maria standing at the foot of the staircase, a candlestick with an unlighted candle in her hand. She wore a long coat over her nightclothes; she had put on her mobcap hastily, for a couple of curling papers showed under its edge.
“You’re safe!” she said.
“Of course we’re safe, Maria,” said Hornblower. “What do you think could happen to us?”
“There was all that noise in the street,” said Maria. “I looked out. Was it the press gang?”
“That’s just what it was,” said Bush.
“Is it—is it war?”