midday
Monsieur Lomaque , land-steward no longer , sits alone in an official-looking room in one of the official buildings of Paris . It is another July evening , as fine as that evening when he and Trudaine sat talking together on the bench overlooking the Seine . The window of the room is wide open , and a faint , pleasant breeze is beginning to flow through it . But Lomaque breathes uneasily , as if still oppressed by the sultry midday heat ; and there are signs of perplexity and trouble in his face as he looks down absently now and then into the street . The times he lives in are enough of themselves to sadden any man 's face . In the Reign of Terror no living being in all the city of Paris can rise in the morning and be certain of escaping the spy , the denunciation , the arrest , or the guillotine , before night . Such times are trying enough to oppress any man 's spirits ; but Lomaque is not thinking of them or caring for them now .