Page 247 - a-portrait-of-the-artist-as-a-young-man

way to the altar.
Temple bent eagerly across Cranly’s breast and said:
—Did you hear MacAlister what he said? That youth is
jealous of you. Did you see that? I bet Cranly didn’t see that.
By hell, I saw that at once.
As they crossed the inner hall, the dean of studies was in
the act of escaping from the student with whom he had been
conversing. He stood at the foot of the staircase, a foot on
the lowest step, his threadbare soutane gathered about him
for the ascent with womanish care, nodding his head often
and repeating:
—Not a doubt of it, Mr Hackett! Very fine! Not a doubt
of it!
In the middle of the hall the prefect of the college sodal-
ity was speaking earnestly, in a soft querulous voice, with a
boarder. As he spoke he wrinkled a little his freckled brow
and bit, between his phrases, at a tiny bone pencil.
—I hope the matric men will all come. The first arts’ men
are pretty sure. Second arts, too. We must make sure of the
newcomers.
Temple bent again across Cranly, as they were passing
through the doorway, and said in a swift whisper:
—Do you know that he is a married man? he was a mar-
ried man before they converted him. He has a wife and
children somewhere. By hell, I think that’s the queerest no-
tion I ever heard! Eh?
His whisper trailed off into sly cackling laughter. The
moment they were through the doorway Cranly seized him
rudely by the neck and shook him, saying:

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