Портрет художника в юности

           AwomanhadwaitedinthedoorwayasDavinhadpassedbyatnightand,offeringhimacupofmilk,hadallbutwooedhimtoherbed;forDavinhadthemildeyesofonewhocouldbesecret.Buthimnowoman’seyeshadwooed.

           HisarmwastakeninastronggripandCranly’svoicesaid:

           —Letusekego.

           Theywalkedsouthwardinsilence.ThenCranlysaid:

           —Thatblitheringidiot,Temple!IsweartoMoses,doyouknow,thatI’llbethedeathofthatfellowonetime.

           ButhisvoicewasnolongerangryandStephenwonderedwashethinkingofhergreetingtohimundertheporch.

           Theyturnedtotheleftandwalkedonasbefore.WhentheyhadgoneonsoforsometimeStephensaid:

           —Cranly,Ihadanunpleasantquarrelthisevening.

           —Withyourpeople?Cranlyasked.

           —Withmymother.

           —Aboutreligion?

           —Yes,Stephenanswered.

           AfterapauseCranlyasked:

           —Whatageisyourmother?

           —Notold,Stephensaid.Shewishesmetomakemyeasterduty.

           —Andwillyou?

           —Iwillnot,Stephensaid.

           —Whynot?Cranlysaid.

           —Iwillnotserve,answeredStephen.

           —Thatremarkwasmadebefore,Cranlysaidcalmly.

           —Itismadebehindnow,saidStephenhotly.