Портрет художника в юности

           —You’dthinkbutterwouldn’tmeltinyourmouthsaidHeron.ButI’mafraidyou’reaslydog.

           —MightIaskyouwhatyouaretalkingabout?saidStephenurbanely.

           —Indeedyoumight,answeredHeron.Wesawher,Wallis,didn’twe?Anddeucedlyprettysheistoo.Andinquisitive!ANDWHATPARTDOESSTEPHENTAKE,MRDEDALUS?ANDWILLSTEPHENNOTSING,MRDEDALUS?YourgovernorwasstaringatherthroughthateyeglassofhisforallhewasworthsothatIthinktheoldmanhasfoundyououttoo.Iwouldn’tcareabit,byJove.She’sripping,isn’tshe,Wallis?

           —Nothalfbad,answeredWallisquietlyasheplacedhisholderoncemoreinacornerofhismouth.

           AshaftofmomentaryangerflewthroughStephen’smindattheseindelicateallusionsinthehearingofastranger.Forhimtherewasnothingamusinginagirl’sinterestandregard.Alldayhehadthoughtofnothingbuttheirleave-takingonthestepsofthetramatHarold’sCross,thestreamofmoodyemotionsithadmadetocoursethroughhimandthepoemhehadwrittenaboutit.Alldayhehadimaginedanewmeetingwithherforheknewthatshewastocometotheplay.Theoldrestlessmoodinesshadagainfilledhisbreastasithaddoneonthenightoftheparty,buthadnotfoundanoutletinverse.