―He knew what money was, Mr Deasy said. He made money. A poet but an Englishman too. Do you know what is the pride of the English? Do you know what is the proudest word you will ever hear from an Englishman’s mouth?
The seas’ ruler. His seacold eyes looked on the empty bay: history is to blame: on me and on my words, unhating.
―That on his empire, Stephen said, the sun never sets.
―Ba! Mr Deasy cried. That’s not English. A French Celt said that.
He tapped his savingsbox against his thumbnail.
―I will tell you, he said solemnly, what is his proudest boast. I paid my way.
Good man, good man.
― I paid my way. I never borrowed a shilling in my life. Can you feel that? I owe nothing. Can you?
Mulligan, nine pounds, three pairs of socks, one pair brogues, ties. Curran, ten guineas. McCann, one guinea. Fred Ryan, two shillings. Temple, two lunches. Russell, one guinea, Cousins, ten shillings, Bob Reynolds, half a guinea, Köhler, three guineas, Mrs McKernan, five weeks’ board. The lump I have is useless.
―For the moment, no, Stephen answered.
Mr Deasy laughed with rich delight, putting back his savingsbox.
―I knew you couldn’t, he said joyously. But one day you must feel it. We are a generous people but we must also be just.
―I fear those big words, Stephen said, which make us so unhappy.