Page:A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (Huebsch 1916).djvu/277

 He frowned angrily upon his thought and on the shrivelled mannikin who had called it forth. His father's jibes at the Bantry gang leaped out of his memory. He held them at a distance and brooded uneasily on his own thought again. Why were they not Cranly's hands? Had Davin's simplicity and innocence stung him more secretly?

He walked on across the hall with Dixon, leaving Cranly to take leave elaborately of the dwarf.

Under the colonnade Temple was standing in the midst of a little group of students. One of them cried:

—Dixon, come over till you hear. Temple is in grand form.—

Temple turned on him his dark gipsy eyes.

—You're a hypocrite, O'Keeffe—he said.—And Dixon is a smiler. By hell, I think that's a good literary expression.—

He laughed slily, looking in Stephen's face, repeating:

—By hell, I'm delighted with that name. A smiler.—

A stout student who stood below them on the steps said:

—Come back to the mistress, Temple. We want to hear about that.—

—He had, faith—Temple said.—And he was a married man too. And all the priests used to be dining there. By hell, I think they all had a touch.—

—We shall call it riding a hack to spare the hunter—said Dixon.

—Tell us, Temple—O'Keeffe said—how many quarts of porter have you in you?—

—All your intellectual soul is in that phrase, O'Keeffe—said Temple with open scorn.

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