a quarter past eight
The stout man broke off his impassioned harangue . A beggar , emerging from the darkness , importuned him : `` Have pity on me , kind sir . '' `` Give him something , '' urged Josephine . The middle-aged lover complied and tenderly drew away the pretty girl , repeating carefully the details of the assignation : `` Lyons Station ; a quarter past eight . The train leaves at twenty to nine . '' Then suddenly dropping Josephine 's arm : `` Now , sweetheart , you 'd better hurry home to your good mother , and remember Saturday . '' The outline of the portly personage faded into the night .