―But my riddle! he said. What opera is like a railway line?
―Opera? Mr O’Madden Burke’s sphinx face reriddled.
Lenehan announced gladly:
― The Rose of Castille . See the wheeze? Rows of cast steel. Gee!
He poked Mr O’Madden Burke mildly in the spleen. Mr O’Madden Burke fell back with grace on his umbrella, feigning a gasp.
―Help! he sighed. I feel a strong weakness.
Lenehan, rising to tiptoe, fanned his face rapidly with the rustling tissues.
The professor, returning by way of the files, swept his hand across Stephen’s and Mr O’Madden Burke’s loose ties.
―Paris, past and present, he said. You look like communards.
―Like fellows who had blown up the Bastille, J. J. O’Molloy said in quiet mockery. Or was it you shot the lord lieutenant of Finland between you? You look as though you had done the deed. General Bobrikoff.
Omnium Gatherum
―We were only thinking about it, Stephen said.
―All the talents, Myles Crawford said. Law, the classics …
―The turf, Lenehan put in.
―Literature, the press.
―If Bloom were here, the professor said. The gentle art of advertisement.
―And Madam Bloom, Mr O’Madden Burke added. The vocal muse. Dublin’s prime favourite.