the hour of
eleven
inquired the princess . `` How flushed your face is ! '' `` My dear countess , '' rejoined the duke , with a forced smile , `` the jest is rather -- '' `` Pray , give me your arm , '' interrupted Foedora carelessly , `` we are already very late . But then , it is all your own fault ; how is it that you , the personification of exactitude , did not proclaim the hour of eleven long ago ? '' `` Ah ! madame , I assure you I am not in a laughing humor . Your cruel jest wounded me to the heart . ''