Telegraph.  Irish homestead.

—­I will try, Stephen said, and let you know tomorrow.  I know two editors slightly.

—­That will do, Mr Deasy said briskly.  I wrote last night to Mr Field, M.P.  There is a meeting of the cattletraders’ association today at the City Arms hotel.  I asked him to lay my letter before the meeting.  You see if you can get it into your two papers.  What are they?

—­The evening telegraph ...

—­That will do, Mr Deasy said.  There is no time to lose.  Now I have to answer that letter from my cousin.

—­Good morning, sir, Stephen said, putting the sheets in his pocket.  Thank you.

—­Not at all, Mr Deasy said as he searched the papers on his desk.  I like to break a lance with you, old as I am.

—­Good morning, sir, Stephen said again, bowing to his bent back.

He went out by the open porch and down the gravel path under the trees, hearing the cries of voices and crack of sticks from the playfield.  The lions couchant on the pillars as he passed out through the gate:  toothless terrors.  Still I will help him in his fight.  Mulligan will dub me a new name:  the bullockbefriending bard.

—­Mr Dedalus!

Running after me.  No more letters, I hope.

—­Just one moment.

—­Yes, sir, Stephen said, turning back at the gate.

Mr Deasy halted, breathing hard and swallowing his breath.

—­I just wanted to say, he said.  Ireland, they say, has the honour of being the only country which never persecuted the jews.  Do you know that?  No.  And do you know why?

He frowned sternly on the bright air.

—­Why, sir?  Stephen asked, beginning to smile.

—­Because she never let them in, Mr Deasy said solemnly.

A coughball of laughter leaped from his throat dragging after it a rattling chain of phlegm.  He turned back quickly, coughing, laughing, his lifted arms waving to the air.

—­She never let them in, he cried again through his laughter as he stamped on gaitered feet over the gravel of the path.  That’s why.

On his wise shoulders through the checkerwork of leaves the sun flung spangles, dancing coins.

* * * * * * *

Ineluctable modality of the visible:  at least that if no more, thought through my eyes.  Signatures of all things I am here to read, seaspawn and seawrack, the nearing tide, that rusty boot.  Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust:  coloured signs.  Limits of the diaphane.  But he adds:  in bodies.  Then he was aware of them bodies before of them coloured.  How?  By knocking his sconce against them, sure.  Go easy.  Bald he was and a millionaire, maestro DI color Che SANNO.  Limit of the diaphane in.  Why in?  Diaphane, adiaphane.  If you can put your five fingers through it it is a gate, if not a door.  Shut your eyes and see.