—­But wait till I tell you, he said.  We had a midnight lunch too after all the jollification and when we sallied forth it was blue o’clock the morning after the night before.  Coming home it was a gorgeous winter’s night on the Featherbed Mountain.  Bloom and Chris Callinan were on one side of the car and I was with the wife on the other.  We started singing glees and duets:  Lo, the early beam of morning.  She was well primed with a good load of Delahunt’s port under her bellyband.  Every jolt the bloody car gave I had her bumping up against me.  Hell’s delights!  She has a fine pair, God bless her.  Like that.

He held his caved hands a cubit from him, frowning: 

—­I was tucking the rug under her and settling her boa all the time.  Know what I mean?

His hands moulded ample curves of air.  He shut his eyes tight in delight, his body shrinking, and blew a sweet chirp from his lips.

—­The lad stood to attention anyhow, he said with a sigh.  She’s a gamey mare and no mistake.  Bloom was pointing out all the stars and the comets in the heavens to Chris Callinan and the jarvey:  the great bear and Hercules and the dragon, and the whole jingbang lot.  But, by God, I was lost, so to speak, in the milky way.  He knows them all, faith.  At last she spotted a weeny weeshy one miles away.  And what star is that, Poldy? says she.  By God, she had Bloom cornered.  That one, is it? says Chris Callinan, sure that’s only what you might call A pinprick.  By God, he wasn’t far wide of the mark.

Lenehan stopped and leaned on the riverwall, panting with soft laughter.

—­I’m weak, he gasped.

M’Coy’s white face smiled about it at instants and grew grave.  Lenehan walked on again.  He lifted his yachtingcap and scratched his hindhead rapidly.  He glanced sideways in the sunlight at M’Coy.

—­He’s a cultured allroundman, Bloom is, he said seriously.  He’s not one of your common or garden ... you know ...  There’s a touch of the artist about old Bloom.

* * * * *

Mr Bloom turned over idly pages of the awful disclosures of Maria monk, then of Aristotle’s masterpiece.  Crooked botched print.  Plates:  infants cuddled in a ball in bloodred wombs like livers of slaughtered cows.  Lots of them like that at this moment all over the world.  All butting with their skulls to get out of it.  Child born every minute somewhere.  Mrs Purefoy.

He laid both books aside and glanced at the third:  Tales of the ghetto by Leopold von Sacher Masoch.

—­That I had, he said, pushing it by.

The shopman let two volumes fall on the counter.

—­Them are two good ones, he said.

Onions of his breath came across the counter out of his ruined mouth.  He bent to make a bundle of the other books, hugged them against his unbuttoned waistcoat and bore them off behind the dingy curtain.