Four o'clock
Noon would come -- she would hurry along Fifth Avenue , a Nordic Ganymede , her fur coat swinging fashionably with her steps , her cheeks redder by a stroke of the wind 's brush , her breath a delightful mist upon the bracing air -- and the doors of the Ritz would revolve , the crowd would divide , fifty masculine eyes would start , stare , as she gave back forgotten dreams to the husbands of many obese and comic women . One o'clock . With her fork she would tantalize the heart of an adoring artichoke , while her escort served himself up in the thick , dripping sentences of an enraptured man . Four o'clock : her little feet moving to melody , her face distinct in the crowd , her partner happy as a petted puppy and mad as the immemorial hatter ... . Then -- then night would come drifting down and perhaps another damp . The signs would spill their light into the street . Who knew ?