five o'clock
`` Why , Tom , darling . Are you so sure that _ you _ believe it ? '' * * * * * He left the apartment some ten minutes later , and took a cab to 320 Fifth-Madison . It was almost five o'clock , and the steel-and-glass cylinder was emptying rapidly of its Homelovers employees . He watched the stream of ordinary people stepping off the elevators : the young secretaries with their fresh faces and slim figures , laughing at office anecdotes and sharing intimate confidences about office bachelors ; the smooth-cheeked young executives , in their gray and blue suits , gripping well-stocked brief cases , and striding energetically down the lobby , heading for the commuter trains ; the paunchy , dignified men with their gray temples and gleaming spectacles , walking slowly to the exits , quoting stock prices and planning golf dates . The crowd eddied about him like a battling current as he made his way towards the elevators , and their images swam before his face in pink-and-white blurs . And for one terrible moment , in the thickest vortex of the crowd , he began to imagine that the faces were melting before his eyes , the mouths disappearing into the flesh , and below the white collars and black-knit ties and starched pink blouses appeared a shimmering collection of ugly scales .