Buck Mulligan thought, puzzled:

Shakespeare? he said. I seem to know the name.

A flying sunny smile rayed in his loose features.

To be sure, he said, remembering brightly. The chap that writes like Synge.

Mr Best turned to him.

Haines missed you, he said. Did you meet him? He’ll see you after at the D. B.

C. He’s gone to Gill’s to buy Hyde’s Lovesongs of Connacht.

I came through the museum, Buck Mulligan said. Was he here?

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