Three o'clock
The great heat has caused something like a purple haze to cloud over the deep blue of the sapphire sky . There is not one breath of wind to stir the leaves or cool the flushed faces of those whose duties call them out on this sultry June day . Away in the deep green heart of the broad land broad streams are flowing ; in the very heart of the green woods there is cool , silent shade ; by the borders of the sea , where the waves break with a low , musical murmur , there is a cooling breeze ; but here in London on this bright June afternoon there is nothing to lessen the white , intense heat , and even the flowers exposed for sale in the streets are drooping , the crimson roses look thirsting for dew , the white lilies are fading , the bunches of mignonette give forth a fragrance sweet as the `` song of the swan in dying , '' and the golden sun pours down its flood of rich , warm light over all . Three o'clock , and the express leaves Euston Square for Scotland at a quarter past . The heat in the station is very great , the noise almost deafening ; huge engines are pouring out volumes of steam , the shrill whistle sounds , porters are hurrying to and fro . The quarter-past three train is a great favorite -- more people travel by that than by any other -- and the platform is crowded by ladies , children , tourists , commercial gentlemen . There are very few of the humbler class .