five
o'clock
Still , through his self-disgust , a sensation of respect for the canvas at which he was scowling , persisted . Nor could he account for the perfectly unwelcome and involuntary idea that there was , about the half-finished portrait , something almost dignified in the very candour of its painting . John Burleson came striding in while he was still examining it . He usually came about tea time , and the door was left open after five o'clock . `` O-ho ! '' he said in his big , unhumorous voice , `` what in hell and the name of Jimmy Whistler have we here ? '' `` Mud , '' said Neville , shortly -- `` like Mr. Whistler 's . ''