eleven o'clock
There was nothing Father Rowley disliked so much as arriving home himself after ten , and he hurried up to his room without inquiring if everybody was in . Mark 's window looked out on Keppel Street ; and the May night being warm and his head aching from the effects of the meeting , he sat for nearly an hour at the open window gazing down at the passers by . There was not much to see , nothing more indeed than couples wandering home , a bluejacket or two , an occasional cat , and a few women carrying jugs of beer . By eleven o'clock even this slight traffic had ceased , and there was nothing down the silent street except a salt wind from the harbour that roused a memory of the beach at Nancepean years ago when he had sat there watching the glow-worm and decided to be a lighthouse-keeper keeping his lamps bright for mariners homeward bound . It was of streets like Keppel Street that they would have dreamed , with the Stag Light winking to port , and the west wind blowing strong astern . What a lighthouse-keeper Father Rowley was ! How except by the grace of God could one explain such goodness as his ?