The singing ceased. They went on together, Cranly repeating in strongly stressed rhythm the end of the refrain:
And when we are married, O, how happy we’ll be For I love sweet Rosie O’Grady And Rosie O’Grady loves me.
―There’s real poetry for you, he said. There’s real love.
He glanced sideways at Stephen with a strange smile and said:
―Do you consider that poetry? Or do you know what the words mean?
―I want to see Rosie first, said Stephen.
―She’s easy to find, Cranly said.
His hat had come down on his forehead. He shoved it back and in the shadow of the trees Stephen saw his pale face, framed by the dark, and his large dark eyes. Yes. His face was handsome and his body was strong and hard. He had spoken of a mother’s love. He felt then the sufferings of women, the weaknesses of their bodies and souls: and would shield them with a strong and resolute arm and bow his mind to them.
Away then: it is time to go. A voice spoke softly to Stephen’s lonely heart, bidding him go and telling him that his friendship was coming to an end. Yes; he would go. He could not strive against another. He knew his part.
―Probably I shall go away, he said.
―Where? Cranly asked.
―Where I can, Stephen said.
―Yes, Cranly said. It might be difficult for you to live here now. But is it that that makes you go?
―I have to go, Stephen answered.