Proud:  rich:  silk stockings.

—­Yes, Mr Bloom said.

He moved a little to the side of M’Coy’s talking head.  Getting up in a minute.

—­What’s wrong with him?  He said.  He’s dead, he said.  And, faith, he filled up.  Is it Paddy Dignam?  I said.  I couldn’t believe it when I heard it.  I was with him no later than Friday last or Thursday was it in the Arch.  Yes, he said.  He’s gone.  He died on monday, poor fellow.  Watch!  Watch!  Silk flash rich stockings white.  Watch!

A heavy tramcar honking its gong slewed between.

Lost it.  Curse your noisy pugnose.  Feels locked out of it.  Paradise and the peri.  Always happening like that.  The very moment.  Girl in Eustace street hallway Monday was it settling her garter.  Her friend covering the display of.  Esprit de corps.  Well, what are you gaping at?

—­Yes, yes, Mr Bloom said after a dull sigh.  Another gone.

—­One of the best, M’Coy said.

The tram passed.  They drove off towards the Loop Line bridge, her rich gloved hand on the steel grip.  Flicker, flicker:  the laceflare of her hat in the sun:  flicker, flick.

—­Wife well, I suppose?  M’Coy’s changed voice said.

—­O, yes, Mr Bloom said.  Tiptop, thanks.

He unrolled the newspaper baton idly and read idly: 

    What is home without
    Plumtree’s potted meat? 
    Incomplete
    with it an abode of bliss.

—­My missus has just got an engagement.  At least it’s not settled yet.

Valise tack again.  By the way no harm.  I’m off that, thanks.

Mr Bloom turned his largelidded eyes with unhasty friendliness.

—­My wife too, he said.  She’s going to sing at a swagger affair in the
Ulster Hall, Belfast, on the twenty-fifth.

—­That so?  M’Coy said.  Glad to hear that, old man.  Who’s getting it up?

Mrs Marion Bloom.  Not up yet.  Queen was in her bedroom eating bread and.  No book.  Blackened court cards laid along her thigh by sevens.  Dark lady and fair man.  Letter.  Cat furry black ball.  Torn strip of envelope.

    Love’s
    old
    sweet
    song
    comes lo-OVE’S old ...

—­It’s a kind of a tour, don’t you see, Mr Bloom said thoughtfully. 
SWEEEET song.  There’s a committee formed.  Part shares and part profits.

M’Coy nodded, picking at his moustache stubble.

—­O, well, he said.  That’s good news.

He moved to go.

—­Well, glad to see you looking fit, he said.  Meet you knocking around.

—­Yes, Mr Bloom said.