—Isn’t MacAlister a devil for his pound of flesh? Stephen looked coldly on the oblong skull beneath him overgrown with tangled twinecoloured hair. The voice, the accent, the mind of the questioner offended him and he allowed the offence to carry him towards wilful unkindness, bidding his mind think that the student’s father would have done better had he sent his son to Belfast to study and have saved something on the train fare by so doing. The oblong skull beneath did not turn to meet this shaft of thought and yet the shaft came back to its bowstring; for he saw in a moment the student’s whey-pale face. —That thought is not mine, he said to himself quickly. It came from the comic Irishman in the bench behind. Patience. Can you say with certitude by whom the soul of your race was bartered and its elect betrayed—by the questioner or by the mocker? Patience. Remember Epictetus. It is probably in his character to ask such a question at such a moment in such a tone and to pronounce the word _science_ as a monosyllable. The droning voice of the professor continued to wind itself slowly round and round the coils it spoke of, doubling, trebling, quadrupling its somnolent energy as the coil multiplied its ohms of resistance. Moynihan’s voice called from behind in echo to a distant bell: —Closing time, gents! The entrance hall was crowded and loud with talk. On a table near the door were two photographs in frames and between them a long roll of paper bearing an irregular tail of signatures. MacCann went briskly to and fro among the students, talking rapidly, answering rebuffs and leading one after another to the table. In the inner hall the dean of studies stood talking to a young professor, stroking his chin gravely and nodding his head. Stephen, checked by the crowd at the door, halted irresolutely. From under the wide falling leaf of a soft hat Cranly’s dark eyes were watching him. —Have you signed? Stephen asked. Cranly closed his long thinlipped mouth, communed with himself an instant and answered: —_Ego habeo_. —What is it for? —_Quod?_ —What is it for? Cranly turned his pale face to Stephen and said blandly and bitterly: —_Per pax universalis._ Stephen pointed to the Tsar’s photograph and said: —He has the face of a besotted Christ. The scorn and anger in his voice brought Cranly’s eyes back from a calm survey of the walls of the hall. —Are you annoyed? he asked. —No, answered Stephen. —Are you in bad humour? —No. —_Credo ut vos sanguinarius mendax estis,_ said Cranly, _quia facies vostra monstrat ut vos in damno malo humore estis._ Moynihan, on his way to the table, said in Stephen’s ear: —MacCann is in tiptop form. Ready to shed the last drop. Brand new world. No stimulants and votes for the bitches. Stephen smiled at the manner of this confidence and, when Moynihan had passed, turned again to meet Cranly’s eyes. —Perhaps you can tell me, he said, why he pours his soul so freely into my ear. Can you?