―Is that he? Haines asked, twisting round in his seat.

―Yes, Mulligan said. That’s John Howard, his brother, our city marshal.

John Howard Parnell translated a white bishop quietly and his grey claw went up again to his forehead whereat it rested.

An instant after, under its screen, his eyes looked quickly, ghostbright, at his foe and fell once more upon a working corner.

―I’ll take a mélange , Haines said to the waitress.

―Two mélanges , Buck Mulligan said. And bring us some scones and butter and some cakes as well.

When she had gone he said, laughing: