five o'clock
This was not wise , a perilous business , a course he had no right to pursue . And Lanyard knew it . None the less , he persisted . It was past five o'clock -- deep twilight beneath a cloudless sky -- the life of that street of streets fluent at its swiftest . All that Paris knew of wealth and beauty , fashion and high estate , moved between the curbs . One needed the temper of a Stoic to maintain indifference to the allure of its pageant . Trudging steadily , he of the rusty brown ulster all but touched shoulders with men who were all that he had been but a few days since -- hale , hearty , well-fed , well-dressed symbols of prosperity -- and with exquisite women , exquisitely gowned , extravagantly be-furred and be-jewelled , of glowing faces and eyes dark with mystery and promise : spirited creatures whose laughter was soft music , whose gesture was pride and arrogance .