—Here I am!—said Stephen.
—Late as usual. Can you not combine the progressive tendency with a respect for punctuality?—
—That question is out of order—said Stephen.—Next business.—
His smiling eyes were fixed on a silver wrapped tablet of milk chocolate which peeped out of the propagandist's breast-pocket. A little ring of listeners closed round to hear the war of wits. A lean student with olive skin and lank black hair thrust his face between the two, glancing from one to the other at each phrase and seeming to try to catch each flying phrase in his open moist mouth. Cranly took a small grey handball from his pocket and began to examine it closely, turning it over and over.
—Next business?—said MacCann.—Hom!—
He gave a loud cough of laughter, smiled broadly and tugged twice at the strawcoloured goatee which hung from his blunt chin.
—The next business is to sign the testimonial.—
—Will you pay me anything if I sign?—asked Stephen.
—I thought you were an idealist—said MacCann.
The gipsylike student looked about him and addressed the onlookers in an indistinct bleating voice.
—By hell, that's a queer notion. I consider that notion to be a mercenary notion.—
His voice faded into silence. No heed was paid to his words. He turned his olive face, equine in expression, towards Stephen, inviting him to speak again.
MacCann began to speak with fluent energy of the Tsar's rescript, of Stead, of general disarmament, arbitration in cases of international disputes, of the signs of
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