quarter past three
First , a Mayonnaise of chicken of my own making on the luncheon-table , which , as a work of Art , was simply adorable -- I say no more . Secondly , my green silk dress , trimmed with my mother 's famous lace -- another work of Art , equally adorable with the first . Whether I looked at the luncheon-table , or whether I looked in the glass , I could feel that I worthily asserted my nation ; I could say to myself , Even in this remote corner of the earth , the pilgrim of civilization searching for the elegant luxuries of life , looks and sees -- France supreme ! The clock chimed the quarter past three . Lucilla , wearying , for the hundredth time of waiting in her own room , put her head in at the door , and still repeated the never-changing question -- `` No signs of them yet ? '' `` None , my love . '' `` Oh , how much longer will they keep us waiting ! ''