He foresaw his pale body reclined in it at full, naked, in a womb of warmth, oiled by scented melting soap, softly laved.  He saw his trunk and limbs riprippled over and sustained, buoyed lightly upward, lemonyellow:  his navel, bud of flesh:  and saw the dark tangled curls of his bush floating, floating hair of the stream around the limp father of thousands, a languid floating flower.

* * * * * * *

Martin Cunningham, first, poked his silkhatted head into the creaking carriage and, entering deftly, seated himself.  Mr Power stepped in after him, curving his height with care.

—­Come on, Simon.

—­After you, Mr Bloom said.

Mr Dedalus covered himself quickly and got in, saying: 

Yes, yes.

—­Are we all here now?  Martin Cunningham asked.  Come along, Bloom.

Mr Bloom entered and sat in the vacant place.  He pulled the door to after him and slammed it twice till it shut tight.  He passed an arm through the armstrap and looked seriously from the open carriagewindow at the lowered blinds of the avenue.  One dragged aside:  an old woman peeping.  Nose whiteflattened against the pane.  Thanking her stars she was passed over.  Extraordinary the interest they take in a corpse.  Glad to see us go we give them such trouble coming.  Job seems to suit them.  Huggermugger in corners.  Slop about in slipperslappers for fear he’d wake.  Then getting it ready.  Laying it out.  Molly and Mrs Fleming making the bed.  Pull it more to your side.  Our windingsheet.  Never know who will touch you dead.  Wash and shampoo.  I believe they clip the nails and the hair.  Keep a bit in an envelope.  Grows all the same after.  Unclean job.

All waited.  Nothing was said.  Stowing in the wreaths probably.  I am sitting on something hard.  Ah, that soap:  in my hip pocket.  Better shift it out of that.  Wait for an opportunity.

All waited.  Then wheels were heard from in front, turning:  then nearer:  then horses’ hoofs.  A jolt.  Their carriage began to move, creaking and swaying.  Other hoofs and creaking wheels started behind.  The blinds of the avenue passed and number nine with its craped knocker, door ajar.  At walking pace.

They waited still, their knees jogging, till they had turned and were passing along the tramtracks.  Tritonville road.  Quicker.  The wheels rattled rolling over the cobbled causeway and the crazy glasses shook rattling in the doorframes.

—­What way is he taking us?  Mr Power asked through both windows.

—­Irishtown, Martin Cunningham said.  Ringsend.  Brunswick street.

Mr Dedalus nodded, looking out.

—­That’s a fine old custom, he said.  I am glad to see it has not died out.

All watched awhile through their windows caps and hats lifted by passers.  Respect.  The carriage swerved from the tramtrack to the smoother road past Watery lane.  Mr Bloom at gaze saw a lithe young man, clad in mourning, a wide hat.