--God help us! he said piously, to think of the men of those times,
Stephen, Hely Hutchinson and Flood and Henry Grattan and Charles Kendal
Bushe, and the noblemen we have now, leaders of the Irish people at
home and abroad. Why, by God, they wouldn't be seen dead in a ten-acre
field with them. No, Stephen, old chap, I'm sorry to say that they are
only as I roved out one fine May morning in the merry month of sweet
July.
A keen October wind was blowing round the bank. The three figures
standing at the edge of the muddy path had pinched cheeks and watery
eyes. Stephen looked at his thinly clad mother and remembered that a
few days before he had seen a mantle priced at twenty guineas in the
windows of Barnardo's.
--Well that's done, said Mr Dedalus.
--We had better go to dinner, said Stephen. Where?
--Dinner? said Mr Dedalus. Well, I suppose we had better, what?
--Some place that's not too dear, said Mrs Dedalus.
--Underdone's?
--Yes. Some quiet place.
--Come along, said Stephen quickly. It doesn't matter about the
dearness.
He walked on before them with short nervous steps, smiling. They tried
to keep up with him, smiling also at his eagerness.
--Take it easy like a good young fellow, said his father.
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