Портрет художника в юности

           Theprofessorpausedinhisreadingandcalledthenextname:

           —Cranly!

           Noanswer.

           —MrCranly!

           AsmileflewacrossStephen’sfaceashethoughtofhisfriend’sstudies.

           —TryLeopardstown!Saidavoicefromthebenchbehind.StephenglancedupquicklybutMoynihan’ssnoutishface,outlinedonthegreylight,wasimpassive.Aformulawasgivenout.AmidtherustlingofthenotebooksStephenturnedbackagainandsaid:

           —GivemesomepaperforGod’ssake.

           Areyouasbadasthat?askedMoynihanwithabroadgrin.

           Hetoreasheetfromhisscribblerandpasseditdown,whispering:

           —Incaseofnecessityanylaymanorwomancandoit.

           Theformulawhichhewroteobedientlyonthesheetofpaper,thecoilinganduncoilingcalculationsoftheprofessor,thespectre-likesymbolsofforceandvelocityfascinatedandjadedStephen’smind.Hehadheardsomesaythattheoldprofessorwasanatheistfreemason.Othegreydullday!Itseemedalimboofpainlesspatientconsciousnessthroughwhichsoulsofmathematiciansmightwander,projectinglongslenderfabricsfromplanetoplaneofeverrarerandpalertwilight,radiatingswifteddiestothelastvergesofauniverseevervaster,fartherandmoreimpalpable.

           —Sowemustdistinguishbetweenellipticalandellipsoidal.