Seven o'clock
`` On the afternoon of my arrival ? '' questioned Lady Ingleby , astonished . `` Yes , '' replied Jim Airth , deliberately . `` Seven o'clock , on the first of June . I stood at the smoking-room window , at a loose end of all things ; sick of myself , dissatisfied with my manuscript , tired of fried fish -- do n't laugh ; small things , as well as great , go to make up the sum of a man 's depression . Then the gate swung back , and YOU -- in golden capitals -- the sunlight in your eyes , came up the garden path . I judged you to be a woman grown , in years perhaps not far short of my own age ; I guessed you a woman of the world , with a position to fill , and a knowledge of men and things .