five o'clock
This mild , balmy November weather , this afterglow of summer which in my own country we call Indian summer , had started new blossoms among the climbing tea-roses , lovely orange-tinted blossoms , and some of a clear lemon color , and their fragrance filled the air . Nowhere do roses blow as they blow near the sea , nowhere have I breathed such perfume as I breathed that drowsy afternoon in Paradise , where in every door-yard thickets of clove-scented pinks carpeted the ground and tall spikes of snowy phlox glimmered silver-white in the demi-light . Where on earth could a more peaceful scene be found than in this sea-lulled land , here in the subdued light under aged , spreading oaks , where moss crept over the pavements and covered the little fountain as though it had been the stony brink of a limpid forest spring ? The mayor woke up toward five o'clock and stared at me with owlish gravity as though daring me to say that he had been asleep . `` Um -- ah -- ma fois oui ! '' he muttered , blowing his nose loudly in a purple silk bandanna . Then he shrugged his shoulders and added : `` C'est la vie , monsieur .