nine o'clock
The morning when he first began to work was charming . His new studio was in the top floor of a five-story building , and on arriving there , breathless from his long climb up the stairs , Vandover threw open the window and gazed out and down upon the city spread out below him , enjoying the view a moment before settling to his work . A little later the trades would be blowing strong and brisk from the ocean , driving steadily through the Golden Gate , filling the city with a taint of salt ; but at present the air was calm , touched with a certain nimbleness , a sparkling effervescence , invigourating , exhilarating . It was early in the forenoon , not yet past nine o'clock , and the mist that gathers over the city just before dawn was steaming off under the sun , very thin and delicate , turning all distant objects a flat tone of pale blue . Over the roofs of the houses he could catch a glimpse of the distant mountains , faint purple masses against the pale edge of the sky , rimming the horizon round with a fillet of delicate colour . But any larger view was barred by a huge frame house with a slated mansard roof , directly opposite him across the street , a residence house , one of the few in the neighbourhood . It had been newly painted white and showed brave and gay against the dark blue of the sky and the ruddy greens of the great garden in which it stood .