―He’s not that way built, said Mr. Dedalus. Leave him alone. He’s a levelheaded thinking boy who doesn’t bother his head about that kind of nonsense.

―Then he’s not his father’s son, said the little old man.

―I don’t know, I’m sure, said Mr. Dedalus, smiling complacently.

―Your father, said the little old man to Stephen, was the boldest flirt in the city of Cork in his day. Do you know that?

Stephen looked down and studied the tiled floor of the bar into which they had drifted.

―Now don’t be putting ideas into his head, said Mr. Dedalus. Leave him to his Maker.