six o'clock
There are so many things which are impossible to explain ! Why should certain chords in music make me think of the brown and golden tints of autumn foliage ? Why should the Mass of Sainte Cécile bend my thoughts wandering among caverns whose walls blaze with ragged masses of virgin silver ? What was it in the roar and turmoil of Broadway at six o'clock that flashed before my eyes the picture of a still Breton forest where sunlight filtered through spring foliage and Sylvia bent , half curiously , half tenderly , over a small green lizard , murmuring : `` To think that this also is a little ward of God ! '' When I first saw the watchman his back was toward me . I looked at him indifferently until he went into the church . I paid no more attention to him than I had to any other man who lounged through Washington Square that morning , and when I shut my window and turned back into my studio I had forgotten him .