seven o'clock
But the faint strokes of Lisford-church clock died away upon the cold evening wind , and Clement was still pacing up and down , and the fly was still waiting ; the horse comfortable enough , with a rug upon his back and his nose in a bag of oats ; the man walking up and down by the side of the vehicle , slapping his gloved hands across his shoulders every now and then to keep himself warm . In that long hour between six and seven , Clement Austin 's patience wore itself almost threadbare . It is one thing to ride into the lists on a prancing steed , caparisoned with embroidered trappings , worked by the fair hands of your lady-love , and with the trumpets braying , and the populace shouting , and the Queen of beauty smiling sweet approval of your prowess : but it is quite another thing to walk up and down a dusty country road , with the wind biting like some ravenous animal at the tip of your nose , and no more consciousness of your legs and arms than if you were a Miss Biffin . By the time seven o'clock struck , Clement Austin 's patience had given up the ghost ; and to impatience had succeeded a vague sense of alarm . Margaret Wilmot had gone to force herself into this man 's presence , in spite of his reiterated refusal to see her . What if -- what if , goaded by her persistence , maddened by the consciousness of his own guilt , he should attempt any violence . Oh , no , no ; that was quite impossible .