three o'clock
Sir George Tressady , the young man addressed , shrugged his shoulders . His mouth was still twitching under the influence of nervous excitement . But as they rolled along between the dark hedges , the carriage-lamps shining on their wet branches , green yet , in spite of November , he began to recover a half-cynical self-control . The poll for the Market Malford Division of West Mercia had been declared that afternoon , between two and three o'clock , after a hotly contested election ; he , as the successful candidate by a very narrow majority , had since addressed a shouting mob from the balcony of the Greyhound Hotel , had suffered the usual taking out of horses and triumphal dragging through the town , and was now returning with his supporter and party-leader , Lord Fontenoy , to the great Tory mansion which had sent them forth in the morning , and had been Tressady 's headquarters during the greater part of the fight . `` Did you ever see anyone so down as Burrows ? '' he said presently , with a little leap of laughter . `` By George !