--To be sure, poor fellow. So it is. What time?

A photo it isn't. A badge maybe.

--E ... eleven, Mr Bloom answered.

--I must try to get out there, M'Coy said. Eleven, is it? I only heard it
last night. Who was telling me? Holohan. You know Hoppy?

--I know.

Mr Bloom gazed across the road at the outsider drawn up before the door
of the Grosvenor. The porter hoisted the valise up on the well. She stood
still, waiting, while the man, husband, brother, like her, searched his
pockets for change. Stylish kind of coat with that roll collar, warm for
a day like this, looks like blanketcloth. Careless stand of her with her
hands in those patch pockets. Like that haughty creature at the polo
match. Women all for caste till you touch the spot. Handsome is and
handsome does. Reserved about to yield. The honourable Mrs and Brutus is
an honourable man. Possess her once take the starch out of her.

--I was with Bob Doran, he's on one of his periodical bends, and what do
you call him Bantam Lyons. Just down there in Conway's we were.

Doran Lyons in Conway's. She raised a gloved hand to her hair. In came
Hoppy. Having a wet. Drawing back his head and gazing far from beneath
his vailed eyelids he saw the bright fawn skin shine in the glare, the
braided drums. Clearly I can see today. Moisture about gives long sight
perhaps. Talking of one thing or another. Lady's hand. Which side will
she get up?

--And he said: SAD THING ABOUT OUR POOR FRIEND PADDY! WHAT PADDY? I said.
POOR LITTLE PADDY DIGNAM, he said.

Off to the country: Broadstone probably. High brown boots with laces
dangling. Wellturned foot. What is he foostering over that change for?
Sees me looking. Eye out for other fellow always. Good fallback. Two
strings to her bow.

--WHY? I said. WHAT'S WRONG WITH HIM? I said.

Proud: rich: silk stockings.

--Yes, Mr Bloom said.

He moved a little to the side of M'Coy's talking head. Getting up in a
minute.

--WHAT'S WRONG WITH HIM? He said. HE'S DEAD, he said. And, faith, he
filled up. IS IT PADDY DIGNAM? I said. I couldn't believe it when I heard
it. I was with him no later than Friday last or Thursday was it in the
Arch. YES, he said. HE'S GONE. HE DIED ON MONDAY, POOR FELLOW. Watch!
Watch! Silk flash rich stockings white. Watch!

A heavy tramcar honking its gong slewed between.

Lost it. Curse your noisy pugnose. Feels locked out of it. Paradise and
the peri. Always happening like that. The very moment. Girl in Eustace
street hallway Monday was it settling her garter. Her friend covering the
display of. ESPRIT DE CORPS. Well, what are you gaping at?

--Yes, yes, Mr Bloom said after a dull sigh. Another gone.

--One of the best, M'Coy said.

The tram passed. They drove off towards the Loop Line bridge, her rich
gloved hand on the steel grip. Flicker, flicker: the laceflare of her hat
in the sun: flicker, flick.

--Wife well, I suppose? M'Coy's changed voice said.

--O, yes, Mr Bloom said. Tiptop, thanks.

He unrolled the newspaper baton idly and read idly:


WHAT IS HOME WITHOUT
PLUMTREE'S POTTED MEAT?
INCOMPLETE
WITH IT AN ABODE OF BLISS.


--My missus has just got an engagement. At least it's not settled yet.

Valise tack again. By the way no harm. I'm off that, thanks.

Mr Bloom turned his largelidded eyes with unhasty friendliness.

--My wife too, he said. She's going to sing at a swagger affair in the
Ulster Hall, Belfast, on the twenty-fifth.

--That so? M'Coy said. Glad to hear that, old man. Who's getting it up?

Mrs Marion Bloom. Not up yet. Queen was in her bedroom eating bread and.
No book. Blackened court cards laid along her thigh by sevens. Dark lady
and fair man. Letter. Cat furry black ball. Torn strip of envelope.


LOVE'S


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