noon
Indian summer lay drowsily over the land . It had come late that season , but its rare beauty compensated for its tardiness . Its golden mellowness permeating the hazy air , had also , it seems , crept into the heart of Dorian Trent . The light coating of frost which each morning lay on the grass , had by noon vanished , and now the earth was warm and dry . Dorian was plowing , and he was in no great haste with his work . He did not urge his horses , for they also seemed imbued with the languidness of the season . He let them rest frequently , especially at the end of the furrow where there was a grassy bank on which the plowman could lie prone on his back and look into the dreamy distances of the hills or up into the veiling clouds .