eleven o'clock
`` I sha n't sleep tonight , Martin ; get out my bicycle for me . '' Martin scrutinised her by the light of the street lamp . `` All right , '' he said ; `` I 'll come too . '' There are , say moralists , roads that lead to Hell , but it was on a road that leads to Hampstead that the two young cyclists set forth towards eleven o'clock . The difference between the character of the two destinations was soon apparent , for whereas man taken in bulk had perhaps made Hell , Hampstead had obviously been made by the upper classes . There were trees and gardens , and instead of dark canals of sky banked by the roofs of houses and hazed with the yellow scum of London lights , the heavens spread out in a wide trembling pool . From that rampart of the town , the Spaniard 's Road , two plains lay exposed to left and right ; the scent of may-tree blossom had stolen up the hill ; the rising moon clung to a fir-tree bough .