Page 118 - a-portrait-of-the-artist-as-a-young-man

there was nothing like giving a boy the best education that
money could buy. Mr Dedalus lingered in the hall gazing
about him and up at the roof and telling Stephen, who urged
him to come out, that they were standing in the house of
commons of the old Irish parliament.
—God help us! he said piously, to think of the men of
those times, Stephen, Hely Hutchinson and Flood and Hen-
ry Grattan and Charles Kendal Bushe, and the noblemen we
have now, leaders of the Irish people at home and abroad.
Why, by God, they wouldn’t be seen dead in a ten-acre field
with them. No, Stephen, old chap, I’m sorry to say that they
are only as I roved out one fine May morning in the merry
month of sweet July.
A keen October wind was blowing round the bank. The
three figures standing at the edge of the muddy path had
pinched cheeks and watery eyes. Stephen looked at his thin-
ly clad mother and remembered that a few days before he
had seen a mantle priced at twenty guineas in the windows
of Barnardo’s.
—Well that’s done, said Mr Dedalus.
—We had better go to dinner, said Stephen. Where?
—Dinner? said Mr Dedalus. Well, I suppose we had bet-
ter, what?
—Some place that’s not too dear, said Mrs Dedalus.
—Underdone’s?
—Yes. Some quiet place.
—Come along, said Stephen quickly. It doesn’t matter
about the dearness.
He walked on before them with short nervous steps,

118 A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man