Портрет художника в юности

           Allwerewaiting:uncleCharles,whosatfarawayintheshadowofthewindow,DanteandMrCasey,whosatintheeasy-chairsateithersideofthehearth,Stephen,seatedonachairbetweenthem,hisfeetrestingonthetoastedboss.MrDedaluslookedathimselfinthepierglassabovethemantelpiece,waxedouthismoustacheendsandthen,partinghiscoattails,stoodwithhisbacktotheglowingfire:andstillfromtimetotimehewithdrewahandfromhiscoat-tailtowaxoutoneofhismoustacheends.MrCaseyleanedhisheadtoonesideand,smiling,tappedtheglandofhis-neckwithhisfingers.AndStephensmiledtooforheknewnowthatitwasnottruethatMrCaseyhadapurseofsilverinhisthroat.HesmiledtothinkhowthesilverynoisewhichMrCaseyusedtomakehaddeceivedhim.AndwhenhehadtriedtoopenMrCasey’shandtoseeifthepurseofsilverwashiddentherehehadseenthatthefingerscouldnotbestraightenedout:andMrCaseyhadtoldhimthathehadgotthosethreecrampedfingersmakingabirthdaypresentforQueenVictoria.MrCaseytappedtheglandofhisneckandsmiledatStephenwithsleepyeyes:andMrDedalussaidtohim:

           —Yes.Wellnow,that’sallright.O,wehadagoodwalk,hadn’twe,John?Yes...Iwonderifthere’sanylikelihoodofdinnerthisevening.Yes...O,wellnow,wegotagoodbreathofozoneroundtheHeadtoday.Ay,bedad.