eleven o’clock
He had a passion for convincing people , this Hercules of the new world . He sauntered slowly back to his aunt 's , husbanding his cigar a little , and looking up at the moon now and then , -- not to admire the marvel of her shining , but to think yet again what a fit type of an effete superstition she was , in that she retained her power of fascination even in death . Wingfold walked slowly away , with his eyes on the ground gliding from under his footsteps . It was only eleven o'clock , but this the oldest part of the town seemed already asleep . They had not met a single person on their way , and hardly seen a lighted window . But he felt unwilling to go home , which at first he was fain to attribute to his having drunk a little more wine than was good for him , whence this feverishness and restlessness so strange to his experience . In the churchyard , on the other side of which his lodging lay , he turned aside from the flagged path and sat down upon a gravestone , where he was hardly seated ere he began to discover that it was something else than the wine which had made him feel so uncomfortable .