—­Look at yourself, he said, you dreadful bard!

Stephen bent forward and peered at the mirror held out to him, cleft by a crooked crack.  Hair on end.  As he and others see me.  Who chose this face for me?  This dogsbody to rid of vermin.  It asks me too.

—­I pinched it out of the skivvy’s room, Buck Mulligan said.  It does her all right.  The aunt always keeps plainlooking servants for Malachi.  Lead him not into temptation.  And her name is Ursula.

Laughing again, he brought the mirror away from Stephen’s peering eyes.

—­The rage of Caliban at not seeing his face in a mirror, he said.  If Wilde were only alive to see you!

Drawing back and pointing, Stephen said with bitterness: 

—­It is a symbol of Irish art.  The cracked looking-glass of a servant.

Buck Mulligan suddenly linked his arm in Stephen’s and walked with him round the tower, his razor and mirror clacking in the pocket where he had thrust them.

—­It’s not fair to tease you like that, Kinch, is it? he said kindly.  God knows you have more spirit than any of them.

Parried again.  He fears the lancet of my art as I fear that of his.  The cold steelpen.

—­Cracked lookingglass of a servant!  Tell that to the oxy chap downstairs and touch him for a guinea.  He’s stinking with money and thinks you’re not a gentleman.  His old fellow made his tin by selling jalap to Zulus or some bloody swindle or other.  God, Kinch, if you and I could only work together we might do something for the island.  Hellenise it.

Cranly’s arm.  His arm.

—­And to think of your having to beg from these swine.  I’m the only one that knows what you are.  Why don’t you trust me more?  What have you up your nose against me?  Is it Haines?  If he makes any noise here I’ll bring down Seymour and we’ll give him a ragging worse than they gave Clive Kempthorpe.

Young shouts of moneyed voices in Clive Kempthorpe’s rooms.  Palefaces:  they hold their ribs with laughter, one clasping another.  O, I shall expire!  Break the news to her gently, Aubrey!  I shall die!  With slit ribbons of his shirt whipping the air he hops and hobbles round the table, with trousers down at heels, chased by Ades of Magdalen with the tailor’s shears.  A scared calf’s face gilded with marmalade.  I don’t want to be debagged!  Don’t you play the giddy ox with me!

Shouts from the open window startling evening in the quadrangle.  A deaf gardener, aproned, masked with Matthew Arnold’s face, pushes his mower on the sombre lawn watching narrowly the dancing motes of grasshalms.

To ourselves ... new paganism ... omphalos.

—­Let him stay, Stephen said.  There’s nothing wrong with him except at night.

—­Then what is it?  Buck Mulligan asked impatiently.  Cough it up.  I’m quite frank with you.  What have you against me now?

They halted, looking towards the blunt cape of Bray Head that lay on the water like the snout of a sleeping whale.  Stephen freed his arm quietly.