ten at night
he growled good-humoredly , `` I 'm getting nervy . I must chuck this bad habit of working late , and use the blessed hours of daylight . '' Yet , as he sauntered down the lawn toward the stream , he knew well that he would do nothing of the sort . He loved that time of peace between ten at night and one in the morning . His thoughts ran vagrom then . Fantasies took shape under his pen which , in the cold light of morning , looked unreal and nebulous , though he had the good sense to restrain criticism within strict limits , and corrected style rather than matter . He was a writer , an essayist with no slight leaven of the poet , and had learnt early that the everyday world held naught in common with the brooding of the soul .