anxiety in his eyes.
Stephen, depressed by his own voice, said:
―Do you remember the first day I went to your house after my mother’s death?
Buck Mulligan frowned quickly and said:
―What? Where? I can’t remember anything. I remember only ideas and sensations. Why? What happened in the name of God?
―You were making tea, Stephen said, and I went across the landing to get more hot water. Your mother and some visitor came out of the drawing room. She asked you who was in your room.
―Yes? Buck Mulligan said. What did I say? I forget.
―You said, Stephen answered, O, it’s only Dedalus whose mother is beastly dead.
A flush which made him seem younger and more engaging rose to Buck Mulligan’s cheek.
―Did I say that? he asked. Well? What harm is that?
He shook his constraint from him nervously.
―And what is death, he asked, your mother’s or yours or my own? You saw only your mother die. I see them pop off every day in the Mater and Richmond and cut up into tripes in the dissecting room. It’s a beastly thing and nothing else. It simply doesn’t matter. You wouldn’t kneel down to pray for your mother on her deathbed when she asked you.