Pat paid for diner’s popcorked bottle:  and over tumbler, tray and popcorked bottle ere he went he whispered, bald and bothered, with Miss

Douce.

—­The bright stars fade ...

A voiceless song sang from within, singing: 

—­ ...  The morn is breaking.

A duodene of birdnotes chirruped bright treble answer under sensitive hands.  Brightly the keys, all twinkling, linked, all harpsichording, called to a voice to sing the strain of dewy morn, of youth, of love’s leavetaking, life’s, love’s morn.

—­The dewdrops pearl ...

Lenehan’s lips over the counter lisped a low whistle of decoy.

—­But look this way, he said, rose of Castile.

Jingle jaunted by the curb and stopped.

She rose and closed her reading, rose of Castile:  fretted, forlorn, dreamily rose.

—­Did she fall or was she pushed? he asked her.

She answered, slighting: 

—­Ask no questions and you’ll hear no lies.

Like lady, ladylike.

Blazes Boylan’s smart tan shoes creaked on the barfloor where he strode.  Yes, gold from anear by bronze from afar.  Lenehan heard and knew and hailed him: 

—­See the conquering hero comes.

Between the car and window, warily walking, went Bloom, unconquered hero.  See me he might.  The seat he sat on:  warm.  Black wary hecat walked towards Richie Goulding’s legal bag, lifted aloft, saluting.

—­And I from thee ...

—­I heard you were round, said Blazes Boylan.

He touched to fair miss Kennedy a rim of his slanted straw.  She smiled on him.  But sister bronze outsmiled her, preening for him her richer hair, a bosom and a rose.

Smart Boylan bespoke potions.

—­What’s your cry?  Glass of bitter?  Glass of bitter, please, and a sloegin for me.  Wire in yet?

Not yet.  At four she.  Who said four?

Cowley’s red lugs and bulging apple in the door of the sheriff’s office.

Avoid.  Goulding a chance.  What is he doing in the Ormond?  Car waiting.

Wait.

Hello.  Where off to?  Something to eat?  I too was just.  In here.  What, Ormond?  Best value in Dublin.  Is that so?  Diningroom.  Sit tight there.  See, not be seen.  I think I’ll join you.  Come on.  Richie led on.  Bloom followed bag.  Dinner fit for a prince.

Miss Douce reached high to take a flagon, stretching her satin arm, her bust, that all but burst, so high.

—­O!  O! jerked Lenehan, gasping at each stretch.  O!

But easily she seized her prey and led it low in triumph.

—­Why don’t you grow? asked Blazes Boylan.

Shebronze, dealing from her oblique jar thick syrupy liquor for his lips, looked as it flowed (flower in his coat:  who gave him?), and syrupped with her voice: