—­O God!  Mr Power whispered.  First I heard of it.  Poisoned himself?

He glanced behind him to where a face with dark thinking eyes followed towards the cardinal’s mausoleum.  Speaking.

—­Was he insured?  Mr Bloom asked.

—­I believe so, Mr Kernan answered.  But the policy was heavily mortgaged. 
Martin is trying to get the youngster into Artane.

—­How many children did he leave?

—­Five.  Ned Lambert says he’ll try to get one of the girls into Todd’s.

—­A sad case, Mr Bloom said gently.  Five young children.

—­A great blow to the poor wife, Mr Kernan added.

—­Indeed yes, Mr Bloom agreed.

Has the laugh at him now.

He looked down at the boots he had blacked and polished.  She had outlived him.  Lost her husband.  More dead for her than for me.  One must outlive the other.  Wise men say.  There are more women than men in the world.  Condole with her.  Your terrible loss.  I hope you’ll soon follow him.  For Hindu widows only.  She would marry another.  Him?  No.  Yet who knows after.  Widowhood not the thing since the old queen died.  Drawn on a guncarriage.  Victoria and Albert.  Frogmore memorial mourning.  But in the end she put a few violets in her bonnet.  Vain in her heart of hearts.  All for a shadow.  Consort not even a king.  Her son was the substance.  Something new to hope for not like the past she wanted back, waiting.  It never comes.  One must go first:  alone, under the ground:  and lie no more in her warm bed.

—­How are you, Simon?  Ned Lambert said softly, clasping hands.  Haven’t seen you for a month of Sundays.

—­Never better.  How are all in Cork’s own town?

—­I was down there for the Cork park races on Easter Monday, Ned
Lambert said.  Same old six and eightpence.  Stopped with Dick Tivy.

—­And how is Dick, the solid man?

—­Nothing between himself and heaven, Ned Lambert answered.

—­By the holy Paul!  Mr Dedalus said in subdued wonder.  Dick Tivy bald?

—­Martin is going to get up a whip for the youngsters, Ned Lambert said, pointing ahead.  A few bob a skull.  Just to keep them going till the insurance is cleared up.

—­Yes, yes, Mr Dedalus said dubiously.  Is that the eldest boy in front?

—­Yes, Ned Lambert said, with the wife’s brother.  John Henry Menton is behind.  He put down his name for a quid.

—­I’ll engage he did, Mr Dedalus said.  I often told poor Paddy he ought to mind that job.  John Henry is not the worst in the world.

—­How did he lose it?  Ned Lambert asked.  Liquor, what?

—­Many a good man’s fault, Mr Dedalus said with a sigh.

They halted about the door of the mortuary chapel.  Mr Bloom stood behind the boy with the wreath looking down at his sleekcombed hair and at the slender furrowed neck inside his brandnew collar.  Poor boy!  Was he there when the father?  Both unconscious.  Lighten up at the last moment and recognise for the last time.  All he might have done.  I owe three shillings to O’Grady.  Would he understand?  The mutes bore the coffin into the chapel.  Which end is his head?