twenty-five minutes past eleven
No sign of Honor in the cloistered coolness of the first room ; only a small group of people in earnest talk before one of the pictures , and an artist , with stool and easel , making a conscientious copy of another . Desmond made a cursory tour of the walls and passed on into the second room . Paul , increasingly anxious every moment , lagged behind and consulted his watch . It was twenty-five minutes past eleven . Would she never come ? The second room was empty , and there Desmond 's aimless wandering had been checked by a battle picture ; a vigorous and tragic presentment of Sir John Moore 's retreat from Corunna . `` Here you are , Paul .