Page:A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (Huebsch 1916).djvu/287

 —Hell—Temple said. I can respect that invention of the grey spouse of Satan. Hell is Roman, like the walls of the Romans, strong and ugly. But what is limbo?—

—Put him back into the perambulator, Cranly—O'Keeffe called out.

Cranly made a swift step towards Temple, halted, stamping his foot, crying as if to a fowl:

—Hoosh!—

Temple moved away nimbly.

—Do you know what limbo is?—he cried.—Do you know what we call a notion like that in Roscommon?—

—Hoosh! Blast you!—Cranly cried, clapping his hands.

—Neither my arse nor my elbow!—Temple cried out scornfully—And that's what I call limbo.—

—Give us that stick here—Cranly said.

He snatched the ashplant roughly from Stephen's hand and sprang down the steps: but Temple, hearing him move in pursuit, fled through the dusk like a wild creature, nimble and fleet footed. Cranly's heavy boots were heard loudly charging across the quadrangle and then returning heavily, foiled and spurning the gravel at each step.

His step was angry and with an angry abrupt gesture he thrust the stick back into Stephen's hand. Stephen felt that his anger had another cause but, feigning patience, touched his arm slightly and said quietly:

—Cranly, I told you I wanted to speak to you. Come away.—

Cranly looked at him for a few moments and asked:

—Now?—