Page 100 - a-portrait-of-the-artist-as-a-young-man

ing him of that sudden-woven anger as easily as a fruit is
divested of its soft ripe peel.
He remained standing with his two companions at the
end of the shed listening idly to their talk or to the bursts
of applause in the theatre. She was sitting there among the
others perhaps waiting for him to appear. He tried to recall
her appearance but could not. He could remember only that
she had worn a shawl about her head like a cowl and that
her dark eyes had invited and unnerved him. He wondered
had he been in her thoughts as she had been in his. Then in
the dark and unseen by the other two he rested the tips of
the fingers of one hand upon the palm of the other hand,
scarcely touching it lightly. But the pressure of her fingers
had been lighter and steadier: and suddenly the memory of
their touch traversed his brain and body like an invisible
wave.
A boy came towards them, running along under the
shed. He was excited and breathless.
—O, Dedalus, he cried, Doyle is in a great bake about
you. You’re to go in at once and get dressed for the play.
Hurry up, you better.
—He’s coming now, said Heron to the messenger with a
haughty drawl, when he wants to.
The boy turned to Heron and repeated:
—But Doyle is in an awful bake.
—Will you tell Doyle with my best compliments that I
damned his eyes? answered Heron.
—Well, I must go now, said Stephen, who cared little for
such points of honour.

100 A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man