Anxiously he glanced in the cone of lamplight where three faces, lighted, shone.

See this.  Remember.

Stephen looked down on a wide headless caubeen, hung on his ashplanthandle over his knee.  My casque and sword.  Touch lightly with two index fingers.  Aristotle’s experiment.  One or two?  Necessity is that in virtue of which it is impossible that one can be otherwise.  Argal, one hat is one hat.

Listen.

Young Colum and Starkey.  George Roberts is doing the commercial part.  Longworth will give it a good puff in the express.  O, will he?  I liked Colum’s drover.  Yes, I think he has that queer thing genius.  Do you think he has genius really?  Yeats admired his line:  As in wild earth A Grecian vase.  Did he?  I hope you’ll be able to come tonight.  Malachi Mulligan is coming too.  Moore asked him to bring Haines.  Did you hear Miss Mitchell’s joke about Moore and Martyn?  That Moore is Martyn’s wild oats?  Awfully clever, isn’t it?  They remind one of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza.  Our national epic has yet to be written, Dr Sigerson says.  Moore is the man for it.  A knight of the rueful countenance here in Dublin.  With a saffron kilt?  O’Neill Russell?  O, yes, he must speak the grand old tongue.  And his Dulcinea?  James Stephens is doing some clever sketches.  We are becoming important, it seems.

Cordelia.  CORDOGLIO.  Lir’s loneliest daughter.

Nookshotten.  Now your best French polish.

—­Thank you very much, Mr Russell, Stephen said, rising.  If you will be so kind as to give the letter to Mr Norman ...

—­O, yes.  If he considers it important it will go in.  We have so much correspondence.

—­I understand, Stephen said.  Thanks.

God ild you.  The pigs’ paper.  Bullockbefriending.

Synge has promised me an article for Dana too.  Are we going to be read?  I feel we are.  The Gaelic league wants something in Irish.  I hope you will come round tonight.  Bring Starkey.

Stephen sat down.

The quaker librarian came from the leavetakers.  Blushing, his mask said: 

—­Mr Dedalus, your views are most illuminating.

He creaked to and fro, tiptoing up nearer heaven by the altitude of a chopine, and, covered by the noise of outgoing, said low: 

—­Is it your view, then, that she was not faithful to the poet?

Alarmed face asks me.  Why did he come?  Courtesy or an inward light?

—­Where there is a reconciliation, Stephen said, there must have been first a sundering.

—­Yes.

Christfox in leather trews, hiding, a runaway in blighted treeforks, from hue and cry.  Knowing no vixen, walking lonely in the chase.  Women he won to him, tender people, a whore of Babylon, ladies of justices, bully tapsters’ wives.  Fox and geese.  And in New Place a slack dishonoured body that once was comely, once as sweet, as fresh as cinnamon, now her leaves falling, all, bare, frighted of the narrow grave and unforgiven.