noon
He is again transported . A Frenchwoman never grows old . THE DWELLER OF THE THRESHOLD BY SIR ED-D L-TT-N B-LW-R It was noon . Sir Edward had stepped from his brougham , and was proceeding on foot down the Strand . He was dressed with his usual faultless taste , but in alighting from his vehicle his foot had slipped , and a small round disk of conglomerated soil , which instantly appeared on his high arched instep , marred the harmonious glitter of his boots . Sir Edward was fastidious .