--Look at the young guttersnipe behind him hue and cry, Lenehan said, and
you'll kick. O, my rib risible! Taking off his flat spaugs and the walk.
Small nines. Steal upon larks.

He began to mazurka in swift caricature across the floor on sliding
feet past the fireplace to J. J. O'Molloy who placed the tissues in his
receiving hands.

--What's that? Myles Crawford said with a start. Where are the other two
gone?

--Who? the professor said, turning. They're gone round to the Oval for a
drink. Paddy Hooper is there with Jack Hall. Came over last night.

--Come on then, Myles Crawford said. Where's my hat?

He walked jerkily into the office behind, parting the vent of his jacket,
jingling his keys in his back pocket. They jingled then in the air and
against the wood as he locked his desk drawer.

--He's pretty well on, professor MacHugh said in a low voice.

--Seems to be, J. J. O'Molloy said, taking out a cigarettecase in
murmuring meditation, but it is not always as it seems. Who has the most
matches?


THE CALUMET OF PEACE


He offered a cigarette to the professor and took one himself. Lenehan
promptly struck a match for them and lit their cigarettes in turn. J. J.
O'Molloy opened his case again and offered it.

--THANKY VOUS, Lenehan said, helping himself.

The editor came from the inner office, a straw hat awry on his brow.
He declaimed in song, pointing sternly at professor MacHugh:


--'TWAS RANK AND FAME THAT TEMPTED THEE,
'TWAS EMPIRE CHARMED THY HEART.


The professor grinned, locking his long lips.

--Eh? You bloody old Roman empire? Myles Crawford said.

He took a cigarette from the open case. Lenehan, lighting it for him
with quick grace, said:

--Silence for my brandnew riddle!

--IMPERIUM ROMANUM, J. J. O'Molloy said gently. It sounds nobler than
British or Brixton. The word reminds one somehow of fat in the fire.

Myles Crawford blew his first puff violently towards the ceiling.

--That's it, he said. We are the fat. You and I are the fat in the fire.
We haven't got the chance of a snowball in hell.


THE GRANDEUR THAT WAS ROME


--Wait a moment, professor MacHugh said, raising two quiet claws. We
mustn't be led away by words, by sounds of words. We think of Rome,
imperial, imperious, imperative.

He extended elocutionary arms from frayed stained shirtcuffs, pausing:

--What was their civilisation? Vast, I allow: but vile. Cloacae: sewers.
The Jews in the wilderness and on the mountaintop said: IT IS MEET TO BE
HERE. LET US BUILD AN ALTAR TO JEHOVAH. The Roman, like the Englishman who
follows in his footsteps, brought to every new shore on which he set his
foot (on our shore he never set it) only his cloacal obsession. He gazed
about him in his toga and he said: IT IS MEET TO BE HERE. LET US CONSTRUCT
A WATERCLOSET.

--Which they accordingly did do, Lenehan said. Our old ancient ancestors,
as we read in the first chapter of Guinness's, were partial to the running
stream.

--They were nature's gentlemen, J. J. O'Molloy murmured. But we have
also Roman law.

--And Pontius Pilate is its prophet, professor MacHugh responded.

--Do you know that story about chief baron Palles? J. J. O'Molloy asked.
It was at the royal university dinner. Everything was going
swimmingly ...

--First my riddle, Lenehan said. Are you ready?

Mr O'Madden Burke, tall in copious grey of Donegal tweed, came in
from the hallway. Stephen Dedalus, behind him, uncovered as he entered.

--ENTREZ, MES ENFANTS! Lenehan cried.



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