a quarter to eleven
A robin trilled its sweet , sad song to her from a frosted bough . It was all amazingly like a frosted Christmas card , thought Trix , those Christmas cards her soul had adored in her childish days , and yet which , oddly enough , always brought with them a sentimental touch of sadness . Many things had brought this odd happy sadness to Trix as a child , -- the sound of church bells across water , fire-light gleaming in the darkness from the uncurtained windows of some house , the moon shining on snow , a solitary tree backgrounded by a grey sky , or a flight of rooks at sunset . It was a quarter to eleven or thereabouts when she reached Byestry , and she made her way at once to the little white-washed , thatched presbytery , separated from the road by a small front garden . Trix walked up the path , and rang the bell . Father Dormer was at home , so his housekeeper announced , and she was shown into a small square room with a round table in the centre , and a vase of bronze chrysanthemums on the table . Trix sat down and began to try and arrange her ideas .