nine o'clock
`` Oh , my dear aunties , do n't be terrified , but Glory has had a kind of a wee big triumph ! Nothing very awful , you know , but on Monday night , before a rather larger company than usual , she sang and recited and play-acted a little , and as a result all the earth -- the London earth -- is talking about her , and nobody is taking any notice of the rest of the world . Every post is bringing me flowers with ribbons and cards attached , or illustrated weeklies with my picture and my life in little , and I find it 's wonderful what a lot of things you may learn about yourself if you 'll only read the papers . My room at this moment is like a florist 's window at nine o'clock on Saturday morning , and I have reason to suspect that mine host and teacher , Carl Koenig , F. E. C. O. , exhibits them to admiring neighbours when I am out . The voice of that dear old turtle has ever since Monday been heard in the land , and besides telling me about Poland day and night from all the subterranean passages of the house , he has taken to waiting on me like a nigger , and ordering soups and jellies for me as if I had suddenly become an invalid . Of course , I am an able-bodied woman just the same as ever , but my nerves have been on the rack all the week , and I feel exactly as I did long ago at Peel when I was a little naughty minx and got up into the tower of the old church and began pulling at the bell rope , you remember . Oh , dear !