six o'clock in the
morning
She sat in the big deserted buffet , drinking bouillon and eating poulet and salad ; and catching sight of her own pallid reflection in one of the mirrors , smiled feebly at the contrast between the present and the `` might have been '' ! This white-faced , weary-looking girl was surely not the Sylvia Trevor whose day-dreams had woven such golden things about this very hour . The lady courier engaged a sleeping compartment for the first stage of the long journey to Marseilles , but though it was a comfort to lie down and stretch her weary limbs , there was little sleep for Sylvia that night . She was up and gazing out of the window by six o'clock in the morning , and the day seemed endless despite the interest of the scenes through which she passed . `` Through thy cornfields green , and sunny vines , O pleasant land of France . '' The lines which she had read in her youth came back to memory as the train crossed the broad waters of the Loire and sped through valleys of grapes and olives , surrounded by hills of smiling green . The sun was hot in these southern plains , and the dust blew in clouds through the windows ; it was a relief when evening fell again , and brought the end of the long journey .