Портрет художника в юності

           MrsRiordan,pitythepoorblind.Dantecoveredherplatewithherhandsandsaid:

           —No,thanks.

           MrDedalusturnedtouncleCharles.

           —Howareyouoff,sir?

           —Rightasthemail,Simon.

           —You,John?

           —I’mallright.Goonyourself.

           —Mary?Here,Stephen,here’ssomethingtomakeyourhaircurl.

           HepouredsaucefreelyoverStephen’splateandsettheboatagainonthetable.ThenheaskeduncleCharleswasittender.UncleCharlescouldnotspeakbecausehismouthwasfull;buthenoddedthatitwas.

           —Thatwasagoodanswerourfriendmadetothecanon.What?saidMrDedalus.

           —Ididn’tthinkhehadthatmuchinhim,saidMrCasey.

           —I’LLPAYYOURDUES,FATHER,WHENYOUCEASETURNINGTHEHOUSEOFGODINTOAPOLLING-BOOTH.

           —Aniceanswer,saidDante,foranymancallinghimselfacatholictogivetohispriest.

           —Theyhaveonlythemselvestoblame,saidMrDedalussuavely.Iftheytookafool’sadvicetheywouldconfinetheirattentiontoreligion.

           —Itisreligion,Dantesaid.Theyaredoingtheirdutyinwarningthepeople.

           —WegotothehouseofGod,MrCaseysaid,inallhumilitytopraytoourMakerandnottohearelectionaddresses.

           —Itisreligion,Dantesaidagain.Theyareright.Theymustdirecttheirflocks.