Symbol of departure or of loneliness? The verses crooned in the ear of his memory composed slowly before his remembering eyes the scene of the hall on the night of the opening of the national theatre. He was alone at the side of the balcony, looking out of jaded eyes at the culture of Dublin in the stalls and at the tawdry scenecloths and human dolls framed by the garish lamps of the stage. A burly policeman sweated behind him and seemed at every moment about to act. The catcalls and hisses and mocking cries ran in rude gusts round the hall from his scattered fellow students. —A libel on Ireland! —Made in Germany. —Blasphemy! —We never sold our faith! —No Irish woman ever did it! —We want no amateur atheists. —We want no budding buddhists. A sudden swift hiss fell from the windows above him and he knew that the electric lamps had been switched on in the reader’s room. He turned into the pillared hall, now calmly lit, went up the staircase and passed in through the clicking turnstile. Cranly was sitting over near the dictionaries. A thick book, opened at the frontispiece, lay before him on the wooden rest. He leaned back in his chair, inclining his ear like that of a confessor to the face of the medical student who was reading to him a problem from the chess page of a journal. Stephen sat down at his right and the priest at the other side of the table closed his copy of _The Tablet_ with an angry snap and stood up. Cranly gazed after him blandly and vaguely. The medical student went on in a softer voice: —Pawn to king’s fourth. —We had better go, Dixon, said Stephen in warning. He has gone to complain. Dixon folded the journal and rose with dignity, saying: —Our men retired in good order. —With guns and cattle, added Stephen, pointing to the titlepage of Cranly’s book on which was printed _Diseases of the Ox_. As they passed through a lane of the tables Stephen said: —Cranly, I want to speak to you. Cranly did not answer or turn. He laid his book on the counter and passed out, his well-shod feet sounding flatly on the floor. On the staircase he paused and gazing absently at Dixon repeated: —Pawn to king’s bloody fourth. —Put it that way if you like, Dixon said. He had a quiet toneless voice and urbane manners and on a finger of his plump clean hand he displayed at moments a signet ring. As they crossed the hall a man of dwarfish stature came towards them. Under the dome of his tiny hat his unshaven face began to smile with pleasure and he was heard to murmur. The eyes were melancholy as those of a monkey. —Good evening, gentlemen, said the stubble-grown monkeyish face. —Warm weather for March, said Cranly. They have the windows open upstairs. Dixon smiled and turned his ring. The blackish, monkey-puckered face pursed its human mouth with gentle pleasure and its voice purred: —Delightful weather for March. Simply delightful. —There are two nice young ladies upstairs, captain, tired of waiting, Dixon said.