twenty minutes past seven
With the eye of his mind he saw a long procession of turf triumphs , a long vista of days and nights , and in them , round them , of them -- Helen Bellow ; and by an odd coincidence , as he stood there , the artist 's glazed look came over his eyes , the little line sprang up between them . He turned at the sound of voices and sank into a chair . To have been caught thus gazing at himself would have jarred on his sense of what was right . It was twenty minutes past seven , when , in evening dress , he left the club , and took a shilling 's - worth to Buckingham Gate . Here he dismissed his cab , and turned up the large fur collar of his coat . Between the brim of his opera-hat and the edge of that collar nothing but his eyes were visible . He waited , compressing his lips , scrutinising each hansom that went by .