about seven in the morning
What the Archdeacon liked was an `` off '' Sunday , when he had nothing to do save to walk majestically into his place in the choir stall , to read , perhaps , a Lesson , to talk gravely to people who came to have tea with him after the Sunday Evensong , to reflect lazily , after Sunday supper , his long legs stretched out in front of him , a pipe in his mouth , upon the goodness and happiness and splendour of the Cathedral and the world and his own place in it . Such a Sunday was a perfect thing -- and such a Sunday April 18 ought to have been ... alas ! it was not so . It began very early , somewhere about seven in the morning , with a horrible incident . The rule on Sundays was that the maid knocked at half-past six on the door and gave the Archdeacon and his wife their tea . The Archdeacon lay luxuriously drinking it until exactly a quarter to seven , then he sprang out of bed , had his cold bath , performed his exercises , and shaved in his little dressing-room . At about a quarter past seven , nearly dressed , he returned into the bedroom , to find Mrs. Brandon also nearly dressed .