He strode away from them towards the window.

—­They went forth to battle, Mr O’Madden Burke said greyly, but they always fell.

—­Boohoo!  Lenehan wept with a little noise.  Owing to a brick received in the latter half of the matinee.  Poor, poor, poor Pyrrhus!

He whispered then near Stephen’s ear: 

    Lenehan’s Limerick

  —­There’s A ponderous pundit MACHUGH
    who wears goggles of Ebony hue. 
    As he mostly sees double
    to wear them why trouble? 
    I can’t see the Joe Miller.  Can you?

In mourning for Sallust, Mulligan says.  Whose mother is beastly dead.

Myles Crawford crammed the sheets into a sidepocket.

—­That’ll be all right, he said.  I’ll read the rest after.  That’ll be all right.

Lenehan extended his hands in protest.

—­But my riddle! he said.  What opera is like a railwayline?

—­Opera?  Mr O’Madden Burke’s sphinx face reriddled.

Lenehan announced gladly: 

—­The rose of Castile.  See the wheeze?  Rows of cast steel.  Gee!

He poked Mr O’Madden Burke mildly in the spleen.  Mr O’Madden Burke fell back with grace on his umbrella, feigning a gasp.

—­Help! he sighed.  I feel a strong weakness.

Lenehan, rising to tiptoe, fanned his face rapidly with the rustling tissues.

The professor, returning by way of the files, swept his hand across
Stephen’s and Mr O’Madden Burke’s loose ties.

—­Paris, past and present, he said.  You look like communards.

—­Like fellows who had blown up the Bastile, J. J. O’Molloy said in quiet mockery.  Or was it you shot the lord lieutenant of Finland between you?  You look as though you had done the deed.  General Bobrikoff.

    OMNIUM GATHERUM

—­We were only thinking about it, Stephen said.

—­All the talents, Myles Crawford said.  Law, the classics ...

—­The turf, Lenehan put in.

—­Literature, the press.

—­If Bloom were here, the professor said.  The gentle art of advertisement.

—­And Madam Bloom, Mr O’Madden Burke added.  The vocal muse.  Dublin’s prime favourite.

 Lenehan gave a loud cough.

—­Ahem! he said very softly.  O, for a fresh of breath air!  I caught a cold in the park.  The gate was open.

    You can do it!

The editor laid a nervous hand on Stephen’s shoulder.

—­I want you to write something for me, he said.  Something with a bite in it.  You can do it.  I see it in your face.  In the lexicon of youth ...

See it in your face.  See it in your eye.  Lazy idle little schemer.