the hour of eleven
But scattered about the room were traces of numerous students : hand-bags , polished boxes of instruments , in one place a large drawing covered by newspaper , and in another a prettily bound copy of _ News from Nowhere _ , a book oddly at variance with its surroundings . These things had been put down hastily as the students had arrived and hurried at once to secure their seats in the adjacent lecture theatre . Deadened by the closed door , the measured accents of the professor sounded as a featureless muttering . Presently , faint through the closed windows came the sound of the Oratory clock striking the hour of eleven . The clicking of the microtome ceased , and the demonstrator looked at his watch , rose , thrust his hands into his pockets , and walked slowly down the laboratory towards the lecture theatre door . He stood listening for a moment , and then his eye fell on the little volume by William Morris . He picked it up , glanced at the title , smiled , opened it , looked at the name on the fly-leaf , ran the leaves through with his hand , and put it down .