—­That old pelters, the editor said.  Who tore it?  Was he short taken?

    On swift sail flaming
    from storm and south
    he comes, pale vampire,
    mouth to my mouth.

—­Good day, Stephen, the professor said, coming to peer over their shoulders.  Foot and mouth?  Are you turned ...?

Bullockbefriending bard.

    Shindy in wellknown restaurant

—­Good day, sir, Stephen answered blushing.  The letter is not mine.  Mr
Garrett Deasy asked me to ...

—­O, I know him, Myles Crawford said, and I knew his wife too.  The bloodiest old tartar God ever made.  By Jesus, she had the foot and mouth disease and no mistake!  The night she threw the soup in the waiter’s face in the Star and Garter.  Oho!

A woman brought sin into the world.  For Helen, the runaway wife of
Menelaus, ten years the Greeks.  O’Rourke, prince of Breffni.

—­Is he a widower?  Stephen asked.

—­Ay, a grass one, Myles Crawford said, his eye running down the typescript.  Emperor’s horses.  Habsburg.  An Irishman saved his life on the ramparts of Vienna.  Don’t you forget!  Maximilian Karl O’Donnell, graf von Tirconnell in Ireland.  Sent his heir over to make the king an Austrian fieldmarshal now.  Going to be trouble there one day.  Wild geese.  O yes, every time.  Don’t you forget that!

—­The moot point is did he forget it, J. J. O’Molloy said quietly, turning a horseshoe paperweight.  Saving princes is a thank you job.

Professor MacHugh turned on him.

—­And if not? he said.

—­I’ll tell you how it was, Myles Crawford began.  A Hungarian it was one day ...

    Lost causes

    Noble marquess mentioned

—­We were always loyal to lost causes, the professor said.  Success for us is the death of the intellect and of the imagination.  We were never loyal to the successful.  We serve them.  I teach the blatant Latin language.  I speak the tongue of a race the acme of whose mentality is the maxim:  time is money.  Material domination.  DOMINUS!  Lord!  Where is the spirituality?  Lord Jesus?  Lord Salisbury?  A sofa in a westend club.  But the Greek!

    Kyrie ELEISON!

A smile of light brightened his darkrimmed eyes, lengthened his long lips.

—­The Greek! he said again.  Kyrios!  Shining word!  The vowels the Semite and the Saxon know not.  Kyrie!  The radiance of the intellect.  I ought to profess Greek, the language of the mind.  Kyrie ELEISON!  The closetmaker and the cloacamaker will never be lords of our spirit.  We are liege subjects of the catholic chivalry of Europe that foundered at Trafalgar and of the empire of the spirit, not an imperium, that went under with the Athenian fleets at Aegospotami.  Yes, yes.  They went under.  Pyrrhus, misled by an oracle, made a last attempt to retrieve the fortunes of Greece.  Loyal to a lost cause.