midnight
`` Poor child ! '' he said . There was an instant 's silence . It was past midnight , and the house was painfully still . They stood upon the dusky landing , across which a bar of light streamed from his half-open door , and only Beethoven 's eyes were upon them . But Lancelot felt no impulse to fondle her , only just to lay his hand on her hair , as in benediction and pity . `` So you liked what I was playing , '' he said , not without a pang of personal pleasure .