Francis was reminding Stephen of years before when they had been at school together in Conmee’s time.  He asked about Glaucon, Alcibiades, Pisistratus.  Where were they now?  Neither knew.  You have spoken of the past and its phantoms, Stephen said.  Why think of them?  If I call them into life across the waters of Lethe will not the poor ghosts troop to my call?  Who supposes it?  I, Bous Stephanoumenos, bullockbefriending bard, am lord and giver of their life.  He encircled his gadding hair with a coronal of vineleaves, smiling at Vincent.  That answer and those leaves, Vincent said to him, will adorn you more fitly when something more, and greatly more, than a capful of light odes can call your genius father.  All who wish you well hope this for you.  All desire to see you bring forth the work you meditate, to acclaim you Stephaneforos.  I heartily wish you may not fail them.  O no, Vincent Lenehan said, laying a hand on the shoulder near him.  Have no fear.  He could not leave his mother an orphan.  The young man’s face grew dark.  All could see how hard it was for him to be reminded of his promise and of his recent loss.  He would have withdrawn from the feast had not the noise of voices allayed the smart.  Madden had lost five drachmas on Sceptre for a whim of the rider’s name:  Lenehan as much more.  He told them of the race.  The flag fell and, huuh! off, scamper, the mare ran out freshly with O. Madden up.  She was leading the field.  All hearts were beating.  Even Phyllis could not contain herself.  She waved her scarf and cried:  Huzzah!  Sceptre wins!  But in the straight on the run home when all were in close order the dark horse Throwaway drew level, reached, outstripped her.  All was lost now.  Phyllis was silent:  her eyes were sad anemones.  Juno, she cried, I am undone.  But her lover consoled her and brought her a bright casket of gold in which lay some oval sugarplums which she partook.  A tear fell:  one only.  A whacking fine whip, said Lenehan, is W. Lane.  Four winners yesterday and three today.  What rider is like him?  Mount him on the camel or the boisterous buffalo the victory in a hack canter is still his.  But let us bear it as was the ancient wont.  Mercy on the luckless!  Poor Sceptre! he said with a light sigh.  She is not the filly that she was.  Never, by this hand, shall we behold such another.  By gad, sir, a queen of them.  Do you remember her, Vincent?  I wish you could have seen my queen today, Vincent said.  How young she was and radiant (Lalage were scarce fair beside her) in her yellow shoes and frock of muslin, I do not know the right name of it.  The chestnuts that shaded us were in bloom:  the air drooped with their persuasive odour and with pollen floating by us.  In the sunny patches one might easily have cooked on a stone a batch of those buns with Corinth fruit in them that Periplipomenes sells in his booth near the bridge.  But she had nought for her teeth but the arm with which I held her and in that she nibbled mischievously when I pressed