Five o'clock
A pale light passed over the glass surface , blue and ghostly ; the reflected face grew haggard ; patches of rouge stood out on the cheeks ; dark shadows gathered beneath the eyes ; even the careful coiffure was dishevelled ; a stain of wine was visible on the satin gown ; powder became glaringly apparent on the dimpled shoulder . The enemy was dawn of a day destined to mark the crisis in Augusta Denvil 's life . She shrank from it , without knowing why , and drew the heavy curtains . Five o'clock on the Pincian Hill , with the setting sun casting its ruddy rays over the city spires and roofs . The band was playing , the carriages wending slowly up the drive , the children darting about the flower beds , where the fountain sparkled . Mrs. Denvil 's maroon liveries and spirited horses had already made the circuit , the lady in pale turquoise blue betraying none of the fatigue of dawn , and receiving complacently that homage of admiration which Italy never fails to bestow on an attractive woman in a fine equipage . The Countess di Moccoli had left her own phaeton for a seat beside Mrs. Denvil -- an attention the most gratifying in public -- to discuss the Nile voyage .