eleven o'clock
There was a garden behind the house -- a garden full of orange and I lemon trees -- from which sweet breaths of fragrance were wafted to the nostrils of the guests as they sat within the little hostelry . Percival could speak Italian well , and understood the _ patois _ of the fishermen . He had a wonderful gift for languages ; and it pleased him to sit up half the night , drinking the rough wine of the country , smoking innumerable cigarettes , and laughing heartily at the stories of the fisher-folk , until the simple-minded Italians were filled with admiration and astonishment at this _ Inglese _ who was so much more like one of themselves than any of the _ Inglesi _ that they had ever met . Owing to these late hours and the amount of talking , perhaps , that he had got through , Percival slept late next morning , and it was not until eleven o'clock that he started , regardless of the heat , for the Villa Venturi . He had not very far to go , and it was with a light heart that he strode along holding a great , white umbrella above his head , glancing keenly at the view of sea and land which made the glory of the place , turning up his nose fastidiously at the smells of the village , and wondering in his heart what induced his relations to stay so long out of London . He rang the bell at the gateway with great decision , and told the servant to inform Mr. Heron that `` an English gentleman '' wished to speak to him . He was ushered into a little ante-room , requested to wait there until Mr. Heron was found , and left alone .