Cashel Boyle O’Connor Fitmaurice Tisdall Farrell, murmuring, glassyeyed, strode past the Kildare street club.

Ben Dollard frowned and, making suddenly a chanter’s mouth, gave forth a deep note.

―Aw! he said.

―That’s the style, Mr Dedalus said, nodding to its drone.

―What about that? Ben Dollard said. Not too dusty? What?

He turned to both.

―That’ll do, Father Cowley said, nodding also.