eight o'clock
How well he could imagine the half-annoyed , half-contemptuous smile which would rise to her beautiful face , if he were so foolish as to become sentimental with her ! That , he felt , would be a look not easy to bear . Humiliation he dreaded . When eight o'clock came , he was leaning over the end of the pier , at the appointed spot , still busy in thought . There came a touch on his arm . `` Well , are you thinking how you can make a book out of my story ? '' The touch , the voice , the smile , -- how all his sophistry was swept away in a rush of tenderness and delight !