eight o'clock
There are always two ways of looking at a thing , frequently there are six or seven ; but two ways of looking at a London fog are quite enough . When it is thick and yellow in the streets and stings a man 's throat and lungs as he breathes it , an awakening in the early morning is either an unearthly and grewsome , or a mysteriously enclosing , secluding , and comfortable thing . If one awakens in a healthy body , and with a clear brain rested by normal sleep and retaining memories of a normally agreeable yesterday , one may lie watching the housemaid building the fire ; and after she has swept the hearth and put things in order , lie watching the flames of the blazing and crackling wood catch the coals and set them blazing also , and dancing merrily and filling corners with a glow ; and in so lying and realizing that leaping light and warmth and a soft bed are good things , one may turn over on one 's back , stretching arms and legs luxuriously , drawing deep breaths and smiling at a knowledge of the fog outside which makes half-past eight o'clock on a December morning as dark as twelve o'clock on a December night . Under such conditions the soft , thick , yellow gloom has its picturesque and even humorous aspect . One feels enclosed by it at once fantastically and cosily , and is inclined to revel in imaginings of the picture outside , its Rembrandt lights and orange yellows , the halos about the street-lamps , the illumination of shop-windows , the flare of torches stuck up over coster barrows and coffee-stands , the shadows on the faces of the men and women selling and buying beside them . Refreshed by sleep and comfort and surrounded by light , warmth , and good cheer , it is easy to face the day , to confront going out into the fog and feeling a sort of pleasure in its mysteries .