twelve o'clock
Even that half of the evening east of the cork-popping land of the midnight son has waned at Keeley 's . No longer a road-house on the incandescent road to dawn , there is something hangdog about its very waiters , moving through the easy maze of half-filled tables ; an orchestra , sheepish of its accomplishment , can lift even a muted melody above the light babel of light diners . There is a cabaret , too , bravely bidding for the something that is gone . At twelve o'clock , five of near-Broadway 's best breed , in woolly anklets and wristlets and a great shaking of curls , execute the poodle-prance to half the encores of other days . May Deland , whose ripple of hip and droop of eyelid are too subtle for censorship , walks through her hula-hula dance , much of her abandon abandoned . A pair of _ apaches _ whirl for one hundred and twenty consecutive seconds to a great bang of cymbals and seventy-five dollars a week . At shortly before one Miss Hanna de Long , who renders ballads at one-hour intervals , rose from her table and companion in the obscure rear of the room , to finish the evening and her cycle with `` Darling , Keep the Grate-Fire Burning , '' sung in a contralto calculated to file into no matter what din of midnight dining .