nearly eleven o'clock
They had a salad made out of a little of everything that grows green , with the true Spanish oil , which has a tang and a bouquet unappreciated by the Philistine ; and then they had a strange pastry and some cheese and green almonds . And to make then glad , they drank a bottle of old red Valdepenas , and afterward a glass each of a special Manzanilla , upon which the restaurant very justly prides itself . It was a simple dinner and a little stodgy for that time of the year , but the two men were hungry and sat at table , almost alone in the upper room , for a long time , saying how good everything was , and from time to time despatching the saturnine waiter , a Madrileno , for more peppers . When at last they came out into the narrow street , and thence to the thronged Boulevard des Italiens , it was nearly eleven o'clock . They stood for a little time in the shelter of a kiosk , looking down the boulevard to where the Place de l'Opéra opened wide and the lights of the Café de la Paix shone garish in the night . And Ste. Marie said : `` There 's a street fête in Montmartre . We might drive home that way . ''