seven o'clock
He slipped a green carnation into his evening coat , fixed it in its place with a pin , and looked at himself in the glass , the long glass that stood near the window of his London bedroom . The summer evening was so bright that he could see his double clearly , even though it was just upon seven o'clock . There he stood in his favourite and most characteristic attitude , with his left knee slightly bent , and his arms hanging at his sides , gazing , as a woman gazes at herself before she starts for a party . The low and continuous murmur of Piccadilly , like the murmur of a flowing tide on a smooth beach , stole to his ears monotonously , and inclined him insensibly to a certain thoughtfulness . Floating through the curtained window the soft lemon light sparkled on the silver backs of the brushes that lay on the toilet-table , on the dressing-gown of spun silk that hung from a hook behind the door , on the great mass of gloire de Dijon roses , that dreamed in an ivory-white bowl set on the writing-table of ruddy-brown wood .