nine o'clock
The trench is yellow , dry , and resounding . I admire its finely geometrical depth , its shovel-smoothed and shining flanks ; and I find it enjoyable to hear the clean sharp sound of our feet on the hard ground or on the caillebotis -- little gratings of wood , placed end to end and forming a plankway . I look at my watch . It tells me that it is nine o'clock , and it shows me , too , a dial of delicate color where the sky is reflected in rose-pink and blue , and the fine fret-work of bushes that are planted there above the marges of the trench . And Poterloo and I look at each other with a kind of confused delight . We are glad to see each other , as though we were meeting after absence ! He speaks to me , and though I am quite familiar with the singsong accent of the North , I discover that he is singing .