a quarter past two
Heaven knows what I said . After an hour my tongue clove to the roof of my mouth , but I talked on . And all the time George alternately bent his brows upon me , and hung himself at the canvas , uttering strange , smothered cries and oaths , but painting , painting ... . At a quarter past two he laid down his palette and cried to me to descend . Stiffly I did so . For a long moment I looked at the portrait . Then I turned to George and clapped him on the back .