six o'clock
O'Malley , as soon as he recovered from the abruptness of the change from that other conversation , gave all his attention . The uneasy feeling that he was being played with , coaxed as a specimen to the best possible point for the microscope , passed away as the splendor of the vast and beautiful conception dawned upon him , and shaped those nameless yearnings of his life in glowing language . The shadows of the September afternoon were lengthening toward us from the Round Pond by the time O'Malley reached this stage of his curious and fascinating story . It was chilly under the trees , and the `` wupsey-up , wupsey-down '' babies , as he termed them , had long since gone in to their teas , or whatever it is that London babies take at six o'clock . We strolled home together , and he welcomed the idea of sharing a dinner we should cook ourselves in the tiny Knightsbridge flat . `` Stewpot evenings , '' he called these occasions . They reminded us of camping trips together , although it must be confessed that in the cage-like room the `` stew '' never tasted quite as it did beside running water on the skirts of the forest when the dews were gathering on the little gleaming tent , and the wood-smoke mingled with the scents of earth and leaves .