Mr Dedalus eyed with cold wandering scorn various points of Ben Dollard’s figure. Then, turning to Father Cowley with a nod, he muttered sneeringly:

―That’s a pretty garment, isn’t it, for a summer’s day?

―Why, God eternally curse your soul, Ben Dollard growled furiously, I threw out more clothes in my time than you ever saw.

He stood beside them beaming on them first and on his roomy clothes from points of which Mr Dedalus flicked fluff, saying:

―They were made for a man in his health, Ben, anyhow.

―Bad luck to the jewman that made them, Ben Dollard said. Thanks be to God he’s not paid yet.

―And how is that basso profondo , Benjamin, Father Cowley asked.