Портрет художника в юности

           Shewassittingthereamongtheothersperhapswaitingforhimtoappear.Hetriedtorecallherappearancebutcouldnot.Hecouldrememberonlythatshehadwornashawlaboutherheadlikeacowlandthatherdarkeyeshadinvitedandunnervedhim.Hewonderedhadhebeeninherthoughtsasshehadbeeninhis.Theninthedarkandunseenbytheothertwoherestedthetipsofthefingersofonehanduponthepalmoftheotherhand,scarcelytouchingitlightly.Butthepressureofherfingershadbeenlighterandsteadier:andsuddenlythememoryoftheirtouchtraversedhisbrainandbodylikeaninvisiblewave.

           Aboycametowardsthem,runningalongundertheshed.Hewasexcitedandbreathless.

           —O,Dedalus,hecried,Doyleisinagreatbakeaboutyou.You’retogoinatonceandgetdressedfortheplay.Hurryup,youbetter.

           —He’scomingnow,saidHerontothemessengerwithahaughtydrawl,whenhewantsto.

           TheboyturnedtoHeronandrepeated:

           —ButDoyleisinanawfulbake.

           —WillyoutellDoylewithmybestcomplimentsthatIdamnedhiseyes?answeredHeron.

           —Well,Imustgonow,saidStephen,whocaredlittleforsuchpointsofhonour.

           —Iwouldn’t,saidHeron,damnmeifIwould.That’snowaytosendforoneoftheseniorboys.Inabake,indeed!Ithinkit’squiteenoughthatyou’retakingapartinhisballyoldplay.