six o’clock
It was the third of July . The heat and closeness of the air had become quite unbearable . The day had been a busy one for Velchaninoff -- he had been walking and driving about without rest , and had still in prospect a visit in the evening to a certain state councillor who lived somewhere on the Chornaya Riéchka -LRB- black stream -RRB- , and whom he was anxious to drop in upon unexpectedly . At six o'clock our hero issued from his house once more , and trudged off to dine at a restaurant on the Nefsky , near the police-bridge -- a second-rate sort of place , but French . Here he took his usual corner , and ordered his usual dinner , and waited . He always had a rouble -LRB- 1 -RRB- dinner , and paid for his wine extra , which moderation he looked upon as a discreet sacrifice to the temporary financial embarrassment under which he was suffering . He regularly went through the ceremony of wondering how he could bring himself to eat `` such nastiness , '' and yet as regularly he demolished every morsel , and with excellent show of appetite too , just as though he had eaten nothing for three days .