The Mysterious Mr. Miller by William Le Queux

At half-past five o'clock that same afternoon, heedless of the Countess Moltedo's mysterious warning, I was standing by Lucie's side at the long French window that opened upon the balcony. Below, hundreds of visitors, mostly dressed in white, as is the mode of Leghorn, were promenading in the little pine wood that lies between the roadway and the sea, while beyond stretched the broad glassy Mediterranean aglow in the fiery rays of the Tuscan sunset, the mystic islands showing dark purple on the far-off horizon.

It was the hour when all Leghorn was agog after the _siesta_, that period from two o'clock till five, when all _persiennes_ are closed, the streets are silent and deserted, and the city dazzlingly white lies palpitating beneath the blazing sun that blanches everything -- the hour for the evening bath, and the stroll and gossip before dinner.