Mrs Breen: (Holds up A finger) Now, don’t tell a big fib! I know somebody won’t like that. O just wait till I see Molly! (Slily) Account for yourself this very sminute or woe betide you!
Bloom: (Looks behind) She often said she’d like to visit. Slumming. The exotic, you see. Negro servants in livery too if she had money. Othello black brute. Eugene Stratton. Even the bones and cornerman at the Livermore christies. Bohee brothers. Sweep for that matter.
(Tom and Sam Bohee, coloured
Coons in white duck suits,
UPSTARCHED Sambo chokers and large scarlet Asters in their buttonholes,
leap out. Each has his banjo slung. Their paler smaller negroid hands
jingle the TWINGTWANG wires. Flashing white kaffir eyes and tusks they
rattle through A breakdown in clumsy clogs, twinging, singing, back to
back, toe heel, heel toe, with SMACKFATCLACKING nigger lips.)
Tom and Sam:
There’s someone in the
house with Dina
There’s someone in the house, I know,
There’s someone in the house with Dina
Playing on the old banjo.
Bloom: (With A sour TENDERISH smile) A little frivol, shall we, if you are so inclined? Would you like me perhaps to embrace you just for a fraction of a second?
Mrs Breen: (Screams gaily) O, you ruck! You ought to see yourself!
Bloom: For old sake’ sake. I only meant a square party, a mixed marriage mingling of our different little conjugials. You know I had a soft corner for you. (Gloomily) ’Twas I sent you that valentine of the dear gazelle.
Mrs Breen: Glory Alice, you do look a holy show! Killing simply. (She puts out her hand inquisitively) What are you hiding behind your back? Tell us, there’s a dear.
Bloom: (Seizes her wrist with his free hand) Josie Powell that was, prettiest deb in Dublin. How time flies by! Do you remember, harking back in a retrospective arrangement, Old Christmas night, Georgina Simpson’s housewarming while they were playing the Irving Bishop game, finding the pin blindfold and thoughtreading? Subject, what is in this snuffbox?