—O saints above! Miss Douce said, sighed above her jumping rose. I wished I hadn’t laughed so much. I feel all wet.
—O, Miss Douce! Miss Kennedy protested. You horrid thing!
And flushed yet more (you horrid!), more goldenly.
By Cantwell’s offices roved Greaseabloom, by Ceppi’s virgins, bright of their oils. Nannetti’s father hawked those things about, wheedling at doors as I. Religion pays. Must see him about Keyes’s par. Eat first. I want. Not yet. At four, she said. Time ever passing. Clockhands turning. On. Where eat? The Clarence, Dolphin. On. For Raoul. Eat. If I net five guineas with those ads. The violet silk petticoats. Not yet. The sweets of sin.
Flushed less, still less, goldenly paled.
Into their bar strolled Mr Dedalus. Chips, picking chips off one of his rocky thumbnails. Chips. He strolled.
—O welcome back, Miss Douce.
He held her hand. Enjoyed her holidays?
—Tiptop.
He hoped she had nice weather in Rostrevor.
—Gorgeous, she said. Look at the holy show I am. Lying out on the strand all day.
Bronze whiteness.
—That was exceedingly naughty of you, Mr Dedalus told her and pressed her hand indulgently. Tempting poor simple males.
Miss Douce of satin douced her arm away.
—O go away, she said. You’re very simple, I don’t think.
He was.
—Well now, I am, he mused. I looked so simple in the cradle they christened me simple Simon.
—You must have been a doaty, Miss Douce made answer. And what did the doctor order today?
—Well now, he mused, whatever you say yourself. I think I’ll trouble you for some fresh water and a half glass of whisky.
Jingle.
—With the greatest alacrity, Miss Douce agreed.
With grace of alacrity towards the mirror gilt Cantrell and Cochrane’s she turned herself. With grace she tapped a measure of gold whisky from her crystal keg. Forth from the skirt of his coat Mr Dedalus brought pouch and pipe. Alacrity she served. He blew through the flue two husky fifenotes.
