half past nine
that life has not ptarmigans and strawberries to give to all men . How cruel ! How cruel ! Punctually at half past nine on a winter evening he appears at the door leading to the glass-roofed verandah of the restaurant . While , with mathematical precision , he takes off his gloves , he peers over his dim spectacles , first to the right , then to the left , to find out whether any of his acquaintances are present . Then he hangs up his overcoat on its special hook , the one to the right of the fireplace . Gustav , the waiter , an old pupil of his , flies to his table and , without waiting for an order , brushes the crumbs off the tablecloth , stirs up the mustard , smooths the salt in the salt-cellar and turns over the dinner napkin .