Stephen smiled at this sidethrust.
They passed back through the garden and out through the hall where the doddering porter was pinning up a hall notice in the frame. At the foot of the steps they halted and Stephen took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and offered it to his companion.
—I know you are poor—he said.
—Damn your yellow insolence—answered Lynch.
This second proof of Lynch's culture made Stephen smile again.
—It was a great day for European culture—he said—when you made up your mind to swear in yellow.—
They lit their cigarettes and turned to the right. After a pause Stephen began:
—Aristotle has not defined pity and terror. I have. I say . . .—
Lynch halted and said bluntly:
—Stop! I won't listen! I am sick. I was out last night on a yellow drunk with Horan and Goggins.—
Stephen went on:
—Pity is the feeling which arrests the mind in the presence of whatsoever is grave and constant in human sufferings and unites it with the human sufferer. Terror is the feeling which arrests the mind in the presence of whatsoever is grave and constant in human sufferings and unites it with the secret cause.—
—Repeat—said Lynch.
Stephen repeated the definitions slowly.
—A girl got into a hansom a few days ago—he went on—in London. She was on her way to meet her mother whom she had not seen for many years. At the corner of a street the shaft of a lorry shivered the window of the hansom in the shape of a star. A long
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