Then he said to Haines:
— The unclean bard makes a point of washing once a month.
— All Ireland is washed by the gulfstream, Stephen said as he let honey trickle over a slice of the loaf.
Haines from the corner where he was knotting easily a scarf about the loose collar of his tennis shirt spoke:
— I intend to make a collection of your sayings if you will let me.
Speaking to me. They wash and tub and scrub. Agenbite of inwit. Conscience. Yet here's a spot.
— That one about the cracked lookingglass of a servant being the symbol of Irish art is deuced good.
Buck Mulligan kicked Stephen's foot under the table and said with warmth of tone:
— Wait till you hear him on Hamlet, Haines.
— Well, I mean it, Haines said, still speaking to Stephen. I was just thinking of it when that poor old creature came in.
— Would I make any money by it? Stephen asked.
Haines laughed and, as he took his soft grey hat from the holdfast of the hammock, said:
— I don't know, I'm sure.
He strolled out to the doorway. Buck Mulligan bent across to Stephen and said with coarse vigour:
— You put your hoof in it now. What did you say that for?
— Well? Stephen said. The problem is to get money. From whom? From the milkwoman or from him. It's a toss up, I think.
— I blow him out about you, Buck Mulligan said, and then you come along with your lousy leer and your gloomy jesuit jibes.
— I see little hope, Stephen said, from her or from him.
Buck Mulligan sighed tragically and laid his hand on Stephen's arm.
— From me, Kinch, he said.
