a quarter to eleven
Yet there had been absolutely no news of the President of Europe for the last fortnight , beyond an entirely unsupported report that he was somewhere in the East . And all the while the motors poured from all directions towards the Abbey and disappeared under the arch into Dean 's Yard , bearing those fortunate persons whose tickets actually admitted them to the church itself . Cheers ran and rippled along the lines as the great men were recognised -- Lord Pemberton , Oliver Brand and his wife , Mr. Caldecott , Maxwell , Snowford , with the European delegates -- even melancholy-faced Mr. Francis himself , the Government _ ceremoniarius _ , received a greeting . But by a quarter to eleven , when the pealing bells paused , the stream had stopped , the barriers issued out to stop the roads , the wire palisadings vanished , and the crowd for an instant , ceasing its roaring , sighed with relief at the relaxed pressure , and surged out into the roadways . Then once more the roaring began for Julian Felsenburgh . The sun was now high , still a copper disc , above the Victoria Tower , but paler than an hour ago ; the whiteness of the Abbey , the heavy greys of Parliament House , the ten thousand tints of house-roofs , heads , streamers , placards began to disclose themselves . A single bell tolled five minutes to the hour , and the moments slipped by , until once more the bell stopped , and to the ears of those within hearing of the great west doors came the first blare of the huge organ , reinforced by trumpets .