eight o'clock
The exhilaration of the ball , the fighting spirit , the last communicated thrill of Flora 's hand , died out of me . In the thickening envelope of sea-fog I felt like a squirrel in a rotatory cage . That was a lugubrious hour . To speak precisely , those were seven lugubrious hours ; since Flora would not be due before eight o'clock , if , indeed , I might count on her eluding her double cordon of spies . The question was , whither to turn in the meantime ? Certainly not back to the town . In the near neighbourhood I knew of no roof but `` The Hunters ' Tryst , '' by Alexander Hendry .