—­I am an Englishman, Haines answered.

—­He’s English, Buck Mulligan said, and he thinks we ought to speak Irish in Ireland.

—­Sure we ought to, the old woman said, and I’m ashamed I don’t speak the language myself.  I’m told it’s a grand language by them that knows.

—­Grand is no name for it, said Buck Mulligan.  Wonderful entirely.  Fill us out some more tea, Kinch.  Would you like a cup, ma’am?

—­No, thank you, sir, the old woman said, slipping the ring of the milkcan on her forearm and about to go.

Haines said to her: 

—­Have you your bill?  We had better pay her, Mulligan, hadn’t we?

Stephen filled again the three cups.

—­Bill, sir? she said, halting.  Well, it’s seven mornings a pint at twopence is seven twos is a shilling and twopence over and these three mornings a quart at fourpence is three quarts is a shilling.  That’s a shilling and one and two is two and two, sir.

Buck Mulligan sighed and, having filled his mouth with a crust thickly buttered on both sides, stretched forth his legs and began to search his trouser pockets.

—­Pay up and look pleasant, Haines said to him, smiling.

Stephen filled a third cup, a spoonful of tea colouring faintly the thick rich milk.  Buck Mulligan brought up a florin, twisted it round in his fingers and cried: 

—­A miracle!

He passed it along the table towards the old woman, saying: 

—­Ask nothing more of me, sweet.  All I can give you I give.

Stephen laid the coin in her uneager hand.

—­We’ll owe twopence, he said.

—­Time enough, sir, she said, taking the coin.  Time enough.  Good morning, sir.

She curtseyed and went out, followed by Buck Mulligan’s tender chant: 

  —­Heart of my heart, were it more,
    more would be laid at your feet.

He turned to Stephen and said: 

—­Seriously, Dedalus.  I’m stony.  Hurry out to your school kip and bring us back some money.  Today the bards must drink and junket.  Ireland expects that every man this day will do his duty.

—­That reminds me, Haines said, rising, that I have to visit your national library today.

—­Our swim first, Buck Mulligan said.

He turned to Stephen and asked blandly: 

—­Is this the day for your monthly wash, Kinch?

Then he said to Haines: 

—­The unclean bard makes a point of washing once a month.

—­All Ireland is washed by the gulfstream, Stephen said as he let honey trickle over a slice of the loaf.

Haines from the corner where he was knotting easily a scarf about the loose collar of his tennis shirt spoke: 

—­I intend to make a collection of your sayings if you will let me.

Speaking to me.  They wash and tub and scrub.  Agenbite of inwit. 
Conscience.  Yet here’s a spot.