five minutes to eight
She gave her husband an affectionate glance as he slept on , for she was very fond of him , and so she gently rose from the bed and went in her nightgown to call the maid . The servant 's room was small and stuffy , the night had been very hot , and Mrs. Darnell paused for a moment at the door , wondering whether the girl on the bed was really the dusty-faced servant who bustled day by day about the house , or even the strangely bedizened creature , dressed in purple , with a shiny face , who would appear on the Sunday afternoon , bringing in an early tea , because it was her ` evening out . ' Alice 's hair was black and her skin was pale , almost of the olive tinge , and she lay asleep , her head resting on one arm , reminding Mrs. Darnell of a queer print of a ` Tired Bacchante ' that she had seen long ago in a shop window in Upper Street , Islington . And a cracked bell was ringing ; that meant five minutes to eight , and nothing done . She touched the girl gently on the shoulder , and only smiled when her eyes opened , and waking with a start , she got up in sudden confusion . Mrs. Darnell went back to her room and dressed slowly while her husband still slept , and it was only at the last moment , as she fastened her cherry-coloured bodice , that she roused him , telling him that the bacon would be overdone unless he hurried over his dressing . Over the breakfast they discussed the question of the spare room all over again .