—­I will take the risk, said Stephen.

—­And not to have any one person, Cranly said, who would be more than a friend, more even than the noblest and truest friend a man ever had.

His words seemed to have struck some deep chord in his own nature.  Had he spoken of himself, of himself as he was or wished to be?  Stephen watched his face for some moments in silence.  A cold sadness was there.  He had spoken of himself, of his own loneliness which he feared.

—­Of whom are you speaking?  Stephen asked at length.

Cranly did not answer.

* * * * *

March 20.  Long talk with Cranly on the subject of my revolt.

He had his grand manner on.  I supple and suave.  Attacked me on the score of love for one’s mother.  Tried to imagine his mother:  cannot.  Told me once, in a moment of thoughtlessness, his father was sixty-one when he was born.  Can see him.  Strong farmer type.  Pepper and salt suit.  Square feet.  Unkempt, grizzled beard.  Probably attends coursing matches.  Pays his dues regularly but not plentifully to Father Dwyer of Larras.  Sometimes talks to girls after nightfall.  But his mother?  Very young or very old?  Hardly the first.  If so, Cranly would not have spoken as he did.  Old then.  Probably, and neglected.  Hence Cranly’s despair of soul:  the child of exhausted loins.

March 21, morning.  Thought this in bed last night but was too lazy and free to add to it.  Free, yes.  The exhausted loins are those of Elizabeth and Zacchary.  Then he is the precursor.  Item:  he eats chiefly belly bacon and dried figs.  Read locusts and wild honey.  Also, when thinking of him, saw always a stern severed head or death mask as if outlined on a grey curtain or veronica.  Decollation they call it in the gold.  Puzzled for the moment by saint John at the Latin gate.  What do I see?  A decollated percursor trying to pick the lock.

March 21, night.  Free.  Soul free and fancy free.  Let the dead bury the dead.  Ay.  And let the dead marry the dead.

March 22.  In company with Lynch followed a sizeable hospital nurse.  Lynch’s idea.  Dislike it.  Two lean hungry greyhounds walking after a heifer.

March 23.  Have not seen her since that night.  Unwell?  Sits at the fire perhaps with mamma’s shawl on her shoulders.  But not peevish.  A nice bowl of gruel?  Won’t you now?

March 24.  Began with a discussion with my mother.  Subject:  B.V.M.  Handicapped by my sex and youth.  To escape held up relations between Jesus and Papa against those between Mary and her son.  Said religion was not a lying-in hospital.  Mother indulgent.  Said I have a queer mind and have read too much.  Not true.  Have read little and understood less.  Then she said I would come back to faith because I had a restless mind.  This means to leave church by back door of sin and re-enter through the skylight of repentance.  Cannot repent.  Told her so and asked for sixpence.  Got threepence.