Buck Mulligan peeped an instant under the mirror and then covered the bowl smartly.

―Back to barracks, he said sternly.

He added in a preacher’s tone:

―For this, O dearly beloved, is the genuine Christine: body and soul and blood and ouns. Slow music, please. Shut your eyes, gents. One moment. A little trouble about those white corpuscles. Silence, all.

He peered sideways up and gave a long low whistle of call, then paused awhile in rapt attention, his even white teeth glistening here and there with gold points. Chrysostomos. Two strong shrill whistles answered through the calm.

―Thanks, old chap, he cried briskly. That will do nicely. Switch off the current, will you?