Портрет художника в юности

           —Toobad!Toobad!saiduncleCharles.

           —What?criedMrDedalus.WerewetodeserthimatthebiddingoftheEnglishpeople?

           —Hewasnolongerworthytolead,saidDante.Hewasapublicsinner.

           —Weareallsinnersandblacksinners,saidMrCaseycoldly.

           —WOEBETOTHEMANBYWHOMTHESCANDALCOMETH!saidMrsRiordan.ITWOULDBEBETTERFORHIMTHATAMILLSTONEWERETIEDABOUTHISNECKANDTHATHEWERECASTINTOTHEDEPTHSOFTHESEARATHERTHANTHATHESHOULDSCANDALIZEONEOFTHESE,MYLEASTLITTLEONES.ThatisthelanguageoftheHolyGhost.

           —Andverybadlanguageifyouaskme,saidMrDedaluscoolly.

           —Simon!Simon!saiduncleCharles.Theboy.

           —Yes,yes,saidMrDedalus.Imeantaboutthe...Iwasthinkingaboutthebadlanguageoftherailwayporter.Wellnow,that’sallright.Here,Stephen,showmeyourplate,oldchap.Eatawaynow.Here.

           HeheapedupthefoodonStephen’splateandserveduncleCharlesandMrCaseytolargepiecesofturkeyandsplashesofsauce.MrsDedaluswaseatinglittleandDantesatwithherhandsinherlap.Shewasredintheface.MrDedalusrootedwiththecarversattheendofthedishandsaid:

           —There’satastybitherewecallthepope’snose.Ifanyladyorgentleman...

           Heheldapieceoffowlupontheprongofthecarvingfork.Nobodyspoke.