ten o'clock
He heard the Canon 's voice in his ears : `` Always a knife and fork , my boy ... any time if you let us know . '' He stepped down into the little lighted streets , into the town with its cosy security and some scent , even then in the heart of winter , perhaps , from the fruit of its many orchards . The moon , once again an orange feather in the sky , reminded him of those early days that seemed now to be streaming in upon him from every side . Early next morning he caught the ten o'clock train to Clinton . `` Why , '' in the train he continued to say to himself , `` have I let all these years pass without returning ? Why have I never returned ? ... Why have I never returned ? ''