seven
o'clock
It was while he was fussing about , whistling or singing , altering the angle of a spoon here or the position of a wine-glass there , that his mother came in . She had put on her Sunday black silk , and she had even added a lace collar and a shell cameo pin ; she was knitting busily , the ball of pink worsted tucked under one arm . There was a sort of grim amusement , tempered by patience , in her face . To have supper at seven o'clock , and call it `` dinner '' ; to load the table with more food than anybody could eat , and much of it stuff that did n't give the stomach any honest work to do -- `` like that truck , '' she said , pointing an amused knitting-needle at the olives -- was nonsense . But Blair was young ; he would get over his foolishness when he got into business . Meantime , let him be foolish ! `` I suppose he thinks he 's the grand high cockalorum ! ''