On his cheek, dull and bloodless, a soft stain of ink lay, dateshaped, recent and damp as a snail’s bed.

He held out his copybook. The word Sums was written on the headline. Beneath were sloping figures and at the foot a crooked signature with blind loops and a blot. Cyril Sargent: his name and seal.

Mr Deasy told me to write them out all again, he said, and show them to you, sir.

Stephen touched the edges of the book. Futility.

Do you understand how to do them now? he asked.

Numbers eleven to fifteen, Sargent answered. Mr Deasy said I was to copy them off the board, sir.

Can you do them yourself? Stephen asked.