about three o'clock
`` Come ! '' we said . `` This is beginning to be something like . '' `` In November , '' our friend said , taking breath for a fresh spurt of praise , `` there were a good many sympathetic afternoons which lent themselves to motor-bus progress up that magnificent avenue , and if you mounted to your place on top , about three o'clock , you looked up or down the long vista of blue air till it turned mirk at either vanishing-point under a sky of measureless cloudlessness . That dimness , almost smokiness at the closes of the prospect , was something unspeakably rich . It made me think , quite out of relation or relevance , of these nobly mystical lines of Keats : ` His soul shall know the sadness of her night , And be among her cloudy trophies hung . ' '' We closed our eyes in the attempt to grope after him .