—­Amen! was responded from the doorway.

Hast thou found me, O mine enemy?

ENTR’ACTE.

A ribald face, sullen as a dean’s, Buck Mulligan came forward, then blithe in motley, towards the greeting of their smiles.  My telegram.

—­You were speaking of the gaseous vertebrate, if I mistake not? he asked of Stephen.

Primrosevested he greeted gaily with his doffed Panama as with a bauble.

They make him welcome.  Was du VERLACHST WIRST du NOCH DIENEN.

Brood of mockers:  Photius, pseudomalachi, Johann Most.

He Who Himself begot middler the Holy Ghost and Himself sent Himself, Agenbuyer, between Himself and others, Who, put upon by His fiends, stripped and whipped, was nailed like bat to barndoor, starved on crosstree, Who let Him bury, stood up, harrowed hell, fared into heaven and there these nineteen hundred years sitteth on the right hand of His Own Self but yet shall come in the latter day to doom the quick and dead when all the quick shall be dead already.

Glo—­o—­ri—­a in ex—­cel—­sis De—­o.

He lifts his hands.  Veils fall.  O, flowers!  Bells with bells with bells aquiring.

—­Yes, indeed, the quaker librarian said.  A most instructive discussion.  Mr Mulligan, I’ll be bound, has his theory too of the play and of Shakespeare.  All sides of life should be represented.

He smiled on all sides equally.

Buck Mulligan thought, puzzled: 

—­Shakespeare? he said.  I seem to know the name.

A flying sunny smile rayed in his loose features.

—­To be sure, he said, remembering brightly.  The chap that writes like
Synge.

Mr Best turned to him.

—­Haines missed you, he said.  Did you meet him?  He’ll see you after at the D. B. C. He’s gone to Gill’s to buy Hyde’s lovesongs of connacht.

—­I came through the museum, Buck Mulligan said.  Was he here?

—­The bard’s fellowcountrymen, John Eglinton answered, are rather tired perhaps of our brilliancies of theorising.  I hear that an actress played Hamlet for the fourhundredandeighth time last night in Dublin.  Vining held that the prince was a woman.  Has no-one made him out to be an Irishman?  Judge Barton, I believe, is searching for some clues.  He swears (His Highness not His Lordship) by saint Patrick.

—­The most brilliant of all is that story of Wilde’s, Mr Best said, lifting his brilliant notebook.  That portrait of Mr W. H. where he proves that the sonnets were written by a Willie Hughes, a man all hues.

—­For Willie Hughes, is it not? the quaker librarian asked.

Or Hughie Wills?  Mr William Himself.  W. H.:  who am I?

—­I mean, for Willie Hughes, Mr Best said, amending his gloss easily.  Of course it’s all paradox, don’t you know, Hughes and hews and hues, the colour, but it’s so typical the way he works it out.  It’s the very essence of Wilde, don’t you know.  The light touch.