―Dixon, come over till you hear. Temple is in grand form.
Temple turned on him his dark gipsy eyes.
―You’re a hypocrite, O’Keeffe, he said. And Dixon is a smiler. By hell, I think that’s a good literary expression.
He laughed slyly, looking in Stephen’s face, repeating:
―By hell, I’m delighted with that name. A smiler.
A stout student who stood below them on the steps said:
―Come back to the mistress, Temple. We want to hear about that.
―He had, faith, Temple said. And he was a married man too. And all the priests used to be dining there. By hell, I think they all had a touch.
―We shall call it riding a hack to spare the hunter, said Dixon.
―Tell us, Temple, O’Keeffe said, how many quarts of porter have you in you?
―All your intellectual soul is in that phrase, O’Keeffe, said Temple with open scorn.
He moved with a shambling gait round the group and spoke to Stephen.
―Did you know that the Forsters are the kings of Belgium? he asked.
Cranly came out through the door of the entrance hall, his hat thrust back on the nape of his neck and picking his teeth with care.
―And here’s the wiseacre, said Temple. Do you know that about the Forsters?
He paused for an answer. Cranly dislodged a figseed from his teeth on the point of his rude toothpick and gazed at it intently.