Портрет художника в юності

           Heputitonhisownplate,saying:

           —Well,youcan’tsaybutyouwereasked.IthinkIhadbettereatitmyselfbecauseI’mnotwellinmyhealthlately.

           HewinkedatStephenand,replacingthedish-cover,begantoeatagain.

           Therewasasilencewhileheate.Thenhesaid:

           —Wellnow,thedaykeptupfineafterall.Therewereplentyofstrangersdowntoo.

           Nobodyspoke.Hesaidagain:

           —IthinkthereweremorestrangersdownthanlastChristmas.

           Helookedroundattheotherswhosefaceswerebenttowardstheirplatesand,receivingnoreply,waitedforamomentandsaidbitterly:

           —Well,myChristmasdinnerhasbeenspoiledanyhow.

           —Therecouldbeneitherlucknorgrace,Dantesaid,inahousewherethereisnorespectforthepastorsofthechurch.

           MrDedalusthrewhisknifeandforknoisilyonhisplate.

           —Respect!hesaid.IsitforBillywiththeliporforthetubofgutsupinArmagh?Respect!

           —Princesofthechurch,saidMrCaseywithslowscorn.

           —LordLeitrim’scoachman,yes,saidMrDedalus.

           —TheyaretheLord’sanointed,Dantesaid.Theyareanhonourtotheircountry.

           —Tubofguts,saidMrDedaluscoarsely.Hehasahandsomeface,mindyou,inrepose.Youshouldseethatfellowlappinguphisbaconandcabbageofacoldwinter’sday.