about
eight o'clock
Still it was the sort of home Ford Foster had been acquainted with all his life ; and it was partly owing to that , that he had become so prematurely `` knowing . '' He knew too much , in fact , and was only too well aware of it . He had filled his head with an unlimited stock of boarding-house information , as well as with a firm persuasion that there was little more to be had , -- unless , indeed , it might be scraps of such outside knowledge as he had now been picking up over on Long Island . In one of the large `` parlor-chambers '' of the boarding-house , at about eight o'clock that evening , a middle-aged gentleman and lady , with a fair , sweet-faced girl of about nineteen , were sitting near an open window , very much as if they were waiting for somebody . Such a kind , motherly lady ! She was one of those whom no one can help liking , after seeing her smile once , or hearing her speak . Ford Foster himself could not have put in words what he thought about his mother .