three in the
afternoon
Endymion Westcote , like many pompous men , usually hurt somebody when he indulged in a joke , and for this cause , perhaps , had a nervous dislike of wit in others . Dull in taking a jest , but almost preternaturally clever in suspecting one , he had disliked Raoul 's sallies in proportion as they puzzled him . The remembrance of them rankled , and this had been his bull-roar of revenge . He spent the next morning in his office ; and returning at three in the afternoon , retired to the library to draw up the usual monthly report required of him as Commissary . He had been writing tor an hour or more , when Dorothea tapped at the door and entered . Endymion did not observe her pallor ; indeed , he scarcely looked up . `` Ah !