seven
o'clock
A garden-boy had seen Christian `` going west the avenue '' ; Larry collected Scandal and Steersman from the ash-pit , and followed her `` west the avenue . '' He walked slowly , noting how neglected was the general aspect , how badly the avenue was in need of gravel , remembering how in the old days , the bands of slingers had never failed of ammunition , wondering if the Major were really as hard up as he thought he was ; wondering if they had all turned against him , and if they would set Christian against him too . He came to the turn near the river that led to the stepping stones , and stood , in deepening depression , waiting , in the hope that she might come . It was seven o'clock , the sun was setting , the sky was warming to its last loveliness of rose and amber , and amethyst , colours with names almost as beautiful as themselves . The long stretches of grass on either side of the avenue were a fierce green , the brakes of bracken were burning orange , the long shadows of the trees that fell across the roadway were purple . The grove of yew trees , that hid the course of the river from him , had the sharpness of a silhouette cut out of dark velvet . `` Not really black , '' Larry told himself , screwing up his eyes .