Cranly cut him short by asking:
―Has your mother had a happy life?
―How do I know? Stephen said.
―How many children had she?
―Nine or ten, Stephen answered. Some died.
―Was your father. … Cranly interrupted himself for an instant, and then said: I don’t want to pry into your family affairs. But was your father what is called well-to-do? I mean, when you were growing up?
―Yes, Stephen said.
―What was he? Cranly asked after a pause.
Stephen began to enumerate glibly his father’s attributes.
―A medical student, an oarsman, a tenor, an amateur actor, a shouting politician, a small landlord, a small investor, a drinker, a good fellow, a storyteller, somebody’s secretary, something in a distillery, a taxgatherer, a bankrupt and at present a praiser of his own past.
Cranly laughed, tightening his grip on Stephen’s arm, and said:
―The distillery is damn good.
―Is there anything else you want to know? Stephen asked.
―Are you in good circumstances at present?
―Do I look it? Stephen asked bluntly.
―So then, Cranly went on musingly, you were born in the lap of luxury.