about six o'clock
Glow-worms light her little feet In her fairy theatre ; Oh , but Sylvia is sweet ! Tell me who is sweeter ! As love-making in which we have no share is apt to be either tantalising or monotonous , I propose to skip the next fortnight and introduce myself to the reader at a moment when I am once more alone . It is about six o'clock on a summer afternoon , I am in Paris , and seated at one of the little marble tables of the Cafe de la Paix , dreamily watching the glittering tide of gay folk passing by , -- `` All happy people on their way To make a golden end of day . '' Meditatively I smoke a cigarette and sip a pale greenish liquor smelling strongly of aniseed , which is n't half so interesting as a commonplace whiskey and soda , but which , I am told , has the recommendation of being ten times as wicked . I sip it with a delicious thrill of degeneration , as though I were Eve tasting the apple for the first time , -- for `` such a power hath white simplicity . '' Sin is for the innocent , -- a truth which sinners will be the first to regret .