-- the bard's fellowcountrymen， john eglinton answered， are rather tired perhaps of our brilliancies of theorising. i hear that an actress played hamlet for the fourhundredandeighth time last night in dublin. vining held that the prince was a woman. has no-one made him out to be an irishman？ judge barton， i believe， is searching for some clues. he swears (his highness not his lordship) by saint patrick.
-- the most brilliant of all is that story of wilde's， mr best said， lifting his brilliant notebook. that portrait of mr w. h. where he proves that the sonnets were written by a willie hughes， a man all hues.
-- for willie hughes， is it not？ the quaker librarian asked.
or hughie wills. mr william himself. w. h.： who am i？
-- i mean， for willie hughes， mr best said， amending his gloss easily. of course it's all paradox， don't you know， hughes and hews and hues the colour， but it's so typical the way he works it out. it's the very essence of wilde， don't you know. the light touch.
his glance touched their faces lightly as he smiled， a blond ephebe. tame essence of wilde.
you're darned witty. three drams of usquebaugh you drank with dan deasy's ducats.
how much did i spend？ o， a few shillings.
for a plump of pressmen. humour wet and dry.
wit. you would give your five wits for youth's proud livery he pranks in. lineaments of gratified desire.
there be many mo. take her for me. in pairing time. jove， a cool ruttime send them. yea， turtledove her.
eve. naked wheatbellied sin. a snake coils her， fang in's kiss.
-- do you think it is only a paradox， the quaker librarian was asking. the mocker is never taken seriously when he is most serious.
they talked seriously of mocker's seriousness.
buck mulligan's again heavy face eyed stephen awhile. then， his head wagging， he came near， drew a folded telegram from his pocket. his mobile lips read， smiling with new delight.
-- telegram！ he said. wonderful inspiration！ telegram！ a papal bull！