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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 straw-coloured 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 gipsy-like 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, to-
wards 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 the times, of
the new humanity and the new gospel of life which would
make it the business of the community to secure as cheap-
ly as possible the greatest possible happiness of the greatest
possible number.
The gipsy student responded to the close of the period
by crying:

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