Портрет художника в юности

           Theprefectofstudieswasapriestbutthatwascruelandunfair.Andhiswhite-greyfaceandtheno-colouredeyesbehindthesteel-rimmedspectacleswerecruellookingbecausehehadsteadiedthehandfirstwithhisfirmsoftfingersandthatwastohititbetterandlouder.

           —It’sastinkingmeanthing,that’swhatitis,saidFleminginthecorridorastheclasseswerepassingoutinfiletotherefectory,topandyafellowforwhatisnothisfault.

           —Youreallybrokeyourglassesbyaccident,didn’tyou?NastyRocheasked.

           StephenfelthisheartfilledbyFleming’swordsanddidnotanswer.

           —Ofcoursehedid!saidFleming.Iwouldn’tstandit.I’dgoupandtelltherectoronhim.

           —Yes,saidCecilThundereagerly,andIsawhimliftthepandy-batoverhisshoulderandhe’snotallowedtodothat.

           —Didtheyhurtyoumuch?NastyRocheasked.

           —Verymuch,Stephensaid.

           —Iwouldn’tstandit,Flemingrepeated,fromBaldyheadoranyotherBaldyhead.It’sastinkingmeanlowtrick,that’swhatitis.I’dgostraightuptotherectorandtellhimaboutitafterdinner.

           —Yes,do.Yes,do,saidCecilThunder.

           —Yes,do.Yes,goupandtelltherectoronhim,Dedalus,saidNastyRoche,becausehesaidthathe’dcomeintomorrowagainandpandyyou.

           —Yes,yes.Telltherector,allsaid.