—­What is it?  Mr Bloom asked, taking the card.  U.P.?

—­U.P.:  up, she said.  Someone taking a rise out of him.  It’s a great shame for them whoever he is.

—­Indeed it is, Mr Bloom said.

She took back the card, sighing.

—­And now he’s going round to Mr Menton’s office.  He’s going to take an action for ten thousand pounds, he says.

She folded the card into her untidy bag and snapped the catch.

Same blue serge dress she had two years ago, the nap bleaching.  Seen its best days.  Wispish hair over her ears.  And that dowdy toque:  three old grapes to take the harm out of it.  Shabby genteel.  She used to be a tasty dresser.  Lines round her mouth.  Only a year or so older than Molly.

See the eye that woman gave her, passing.  Cruel.  The unfair sex.

He looked still at her, holding back behind his look his discontent.  Pungent mockturtle oxtail mulligatawny.  I’m hungry too.  Flakes of pastry on the gusset of her dress:  daub of sugary flour stuck to her cheek.  Rhubarb tart with liberal fillings, rich fruit interior.  Josie Powell that was.  In Luke Doyle’s long ago.  Dolphin’s Barn, the charades.  U.P.:  up.

Change the subject.

—­Do you ever see anything of Mrs Beaufoy?  Mr Bloom asked.

—­Mina Purefoy? she said.

Philip Beaufoy I was thinking.  Playgoers’ Club.  Matcham often thinks of the masterstroke.  Did I pull the chain?  Yes.  The last act.

—­Yes.

—­I just called to ask on the way in is she over it.  She’s in the lying-in hospital in Holles street.  Dr Horne got her in.  She’s three days bad now.

—­O, Mr Bloom said.  I’m sorry to hear that.

—­Yes, Mrs Breen said.  And a houseful of kids at home.  It’s a very stiff birth, the nurse told me.

—–­O, Mr Bloom said.

His heavy pitying gaze absorbed her news.  His tongue clacked in compassion.  Dth!  Dth!

—­I’m sorry to hear that, he said.  Poor thing!  Three days!  That’s terrible for her.

Mrs Breen nodded.

—­She was taken bad on the Tuesday ...

Mr Bloom touched her funnybone gently, warning her: 

—­Mind!  Let this man pass.

A bony form strode along the curbstone from the river staring with a rapt gaze into the sunlight through a heavystringed glass.  Tight as a skullpiece a tiny hat gripped his head.  From his arm a folded dustcoat, a stick and an umbrella dangled to his stride.

—­Watch him, Mr Bloom said.  He always walks outside the lampposts.  Watch!

—­Who is he if it’s a fair question?  Mrs Breen asked.  Is he dotty?

—­His name is Cashel Boyle O’Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell, Mr
Bloom said smiling.  Watch!

—­He has enough of them, she said.  Denis will be like that one of these days.

She broke off suddenly.

—­There he is, she said.  I must go after him.  Goodbye.  Remember me to
Molly, won’t you?