-- You remind me of Antisthenes, the professor said, a disciple of Gorgias, the sophist. It is said of him that none could tell if he were bitterer against others or against himself. He was the son of a noble and a bondwoman. And he wrote a book in which he took away the palm of beauty from Argive Helen and handed it to poor Penelope.

Poor Penelope. Penelope Rich.

They made ready to cross O'Connell street.

At various points along the eight lines tramcars with motionless trolleys stood in their tracks, bound for or from Rathmines, Rathfarnham, Blackrock, Kingstown and Dalkey, Sandymount Green, Ringsend and Sandymount Tower, Donnybrook, Palmerston Park and Upper Rathmines, all still, becalmed in short circuit. Hackney cars, cabs, delivery waggons, mail-vans, private broughams, aerated mineral water floats with rattling crates of bottles, rattled, lolled, horsedrawn, rapidly.

-- But what do you call it? Myles Crawford asked. Where did they get the plums?

-- Call it, wait, the professor said, opening his long lips wide to reflect. Call it, let me see. Call it: deus nobis hc otia fecit.

-- No, Stephen said, I call it A Pisgah Sight of Palestine or the Parable of the Plums.

-- I see, the professor said.

He laughed richly.

-- I see, he said again with new pleasure. Moses and the promised land. We gave him that idea, he added to J. J. O'Molloy.

J. J. O'Molloy sent a weary sidelong glance cowards the statue and held his peace.

-- I see, the professor said.

He halted on sir John Gray's pavement island and peered aloft at Nelson through the meshes of his wry smile.

-- Onehandled adulterer, he said grimly. That tickles me I must say. -- Tickled the old ones too, Myles Crawford said, if the God Almighty's truth was known.