six o'clock
It is the custom of the dwellers in Atlantic City , who seem to live entirely for pleasure , to attend a species of vaudeville performance -- incorrectly termed a sacred concert -- on Sunday nights : and it had been one o'clock in the morning before the concert scenery could be moved out of the theatre and the first act set of `` The Rose of America '' moved in . And , as by some unwritten law of the drama no dress-rehearsal can begin without a delay of at least an hour and a half , the curtain had not gone up on Mr Miller 's opening chorus till half past two . There had been dress-parades , conferences , interminable arguments between the stage-director and a mysterious man in shirtsleeves about the lights , more dress-parades , further conferences , hitches with regard to the sets , and another outbreak of debate on the subject of blues , ambers , and the management of the `` spot , '' which was worked by a plaintive voice , answering to the name of Charlie , at the back of the family circle . But by six o'clock a complete , if ragged , performance had been given , and the chorus , who had partaken of no nourishment since dinner on the previous night , had limped off round the corner for a bite of breakfast before going to bed . They were a battered and a draggled company , some with dark circles beneath their eyes , others blooming with the unnatural scarlet of the make-up which they had been too tired to take off . The Duchess , haughty to the last , had fallen asleep with her head on the table . The red-headed Babe was lying back in her chair , staring at the ceiling .