The calm logic is almost a comfort. The absolute certainty in the commodore's features and shoulders (is there every anything but this easy confidence in the man?) is almost something to simply relax into as the opinion of his genuine better.

But first comes the shift in tack. Horatio had spent far too many years under an iron fist not to feel an almost compulsive need now to push against this new comparatively lenient hold.

"I imagine that makes them no less accustomed to the qualities of my brother officers."

That they could hold long, elegant conversation with members of the fairer sex. That they could sort out their forks and spoons without having to carefully watch others from the corner of their eyes. That they could not only appreciate the creaking noises others called music, but even organize their limbs into something graceful enough to be called a dance.

This isn't simply about his own mortification. This is about the good name of the officers James Norrington commands.