Портрет художника в юності

           Butthetellerstilldeferredtheservingofotherstosayhewaslivinginchangedtimesandthattherewasnothinglikegivingaboythebesteducationthatmoneycouldbuy.MrDedaluslingeredinthehallgazingabouthimandupattheroofandtellingStephen,whourgedhimtocomeout,thattheywerestandinginthehouseofcommonsoftheoldIrishparliament.

           —Godhelpus!hesaidpiously,tothinkofthemenofthosetimes,Stephen,HelyHutchinsonandFloodandHenryGrattanandCharlesKendalBushe,andthenoblemenwehavenow,leadersoftheIrishpeopleathomeandabroad.Why,byGod,theywouldn’tbeseendeadinaten-acrefieldwiththem.No,Stephen,oldchap,I’msorrytosaythattheyareonlyasIrovedoutonefineMaymorninginthemerrymonthofsweetJuly.

           AkeenOctoberwindwasblowingroundthebank.Thethreefiguresstandingattheedgeofthemuddypathhadpinchedcheeksandwateryeyes.StephenlookedathisthinlycladmotherandrememberedthatafewdaysbeforehehadseenamantlepricedattwentyguineasinthewindowsofBarnardo’s.

           —Wellthat’sdone,saidMrDedalus.

           —Wehadbettergotodinner,saidStephen.Where?

           —Dinner?saidMrDedalus.Well,Isupposewehadbetter,what?

           —Someplacethat’snottoodear,saidMrsDedalus.

           —Underdone’s?

           —Yes.Somequietplace.

           —Comealong,saidStephenquickly.