―I’m melting, he said, as the candle remarked when … But hush. Not a word more on that subject. Kinch, wake up. Bread, butter, honey. Haines, come in. The grub is ready. Bless us, O Lord, and these thy gifts. Where’s the sugar? O, jay, there’s no milk.
Stephen fetched the loaf and the pot of honey and the buttercooler from the locker. Buck Mulligan sat down in a sudden pet.
―What sort of a kip is this? he said. I told her to come after eight.
―We can drink it black, Stephen said. There’s a lemon in the locker.
―O, damn you and your Paris fads, Buck Mulligan said. I want Sandycove milk.
Haines came in from the doorway and said quietly:
―That woman is coming up with the milk.
―The blessings of God on you, Buck Mulligan cried, jumping up from his chair. Sit down. Pour out the tea there. The sugar is in the bag. Here, I can’t go fumbling at the damned eggs. He hacked through the fry on the dish and slapped it out on three plates, saying:
― In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti.
Haines sat down to pour out the tea.
―I’m giving you two lumps each, he said. But, I say, Mulligan, you do make strong tea, don’t you?
Buck Mulligan, hewing thick slices from the loaf said in an old woman’s wheedling voice:
―When I makes tea I makes tea, as old mother Grogan said. And when I makes water I makes water.