Портрет художника в юности

           AtthefirstbendoftheroadIlookedbackandshewasstandingatthedoor.

           ThelastwordsofDavin’sstorysanginhismemoryandthefigureofthewomaninthestorystoodforthreflectedinotherfiguresofthepeasantwomenwhomhehadseenstandinginthedoorwaysatClaneasthecollegecarsdroveby,asatypeofherraceandofhisown,abat-likesoulwakingtotheconsciousnessofitselfindarknessandsecrecyandlonelinessand,throughtheeyesandvoiceandgestureofawomanwithoutguile,callingthestrangertoherbed.

           Ahandwaslaidonhisarmandayoungvoicecried:

           —Ah,gentleman,yourowngirl,sir!Thefirsthandseltoday,gentleman.Buythatlovelybunch.Willyou,gentleman?

           Theblueflowerswhichsheliftedtowardshimandheryoungblueeyesseemedtohimatthatinstantimagesofguilelessness,andhehaltedtilltheimagehadvanishedandhesawonlyherraggeddressanddampcoarsehairandhoydenishface.

           —Do,gentleman!Don’tforgetyourowngirl,sir!

           —Ihavenomoney,saidStephen.

           —Buythemlovelyones,willyou,sir?Onlyapenny.

           —DidyouhearwhatIsaid?askedStephen,bendingtowardsher.

           ItoldyouIhadnomoney.Itellyouagainnow.

           —Well,sure,youwillsomeday,sir,pleaseGod,thegirlansweredafteraninstant.

           —Possibly,saidStephen,butIdon’tthinkitlikely.