At Annesley bridge the tram halted and， when it was about to go， an old woman rose suddenly from her place to alight. The conductor pulled the bellstrap to stay the car for her. She passed out with her basket and a market net： and Father Conmee saw the conductor help her and net and basket down： and Father Conmee thought that， as she had nearly passed the end of the penny fare， she was one of those good souls who had always to be told twice bless you， my child， that they have been absolved， pray for me. But they had so many worries in life， so many cares， poor creatures.
From the hoardings Mr Eugene Stratton grinned with thick niggerlips at Father Conmee.
Father Conmee thought of the souls of black and brown and yellow men and of his sermon of saint Peter Claver S. J. and the African mission and of the propagation of the faith and of the millions of black and brown and yellow souls that had not received the baptism of water when their last hour came like a thief in the night. That book by the Belgian jesuit， Le Nombre des élus， seemed to Father Conmee a reasonable plea. Those were millions of human souls created by God in His Own likeness to whom the faith had not (D. V.) been brought. But they were God's souls created by God. It seemed to Father Conmee a pity that they should all be lost， a waste， if one might say.
At the Howth road stop Father Conmee alighted， was saluted by the conductor and saluted in his turn.
The Malahide road was quiet. It pleased Father Conmee， road and name. The joybells were ringing in gay Malahide. Lord Talbot de Malahide， immediate hereditary lord admiral of Malahide and the seas adjoining. Then came the call to arms and she was maid， wife and widow in one day. Those were oldworldish days， loyal times in joyous townlands， old times in the barony.
Father Conmee， walking， thought of his little book Old Times in the Barony and of the book that might be written about jesuit houses and of Mary Rochfort， daughter of lord Molesworth， first countess of Belvedere.
A listless lady， no more young， walked alone the shore of lough Ennel， Mary， first countess of Belvedere， listlessly walking in the evening， not startled when an otter plunged. Who could know the truth？ Not the jealous lord Belvedere and not her confessor if she had not committed adultery fully， eiaculatio seminis inter vas naturale mulieris， with her husband's brother？ She would half confess if she had not all sinned as women did. Only God knew and she and he， her husband's brother.
Father Conmee thought of that tyrannous incontinence， needed however for men's race on earth， and of the ways of God which were not our ways.
Don John Conmee walked and moved in times of yore. He was humane and honoured there. He bore in mind secrets confessed and he smiled at smiling noble faces in a beeswaxed drawingroom， ceiled with full fruit clusters. And the hands of a bride and of a bridegroom， noble to noble， were impalmed by don John Conmee.
It was a charming day.
The lychgate of a field showed Father Conmee breadths of cabbages， curtseying to him with ample underleaves. The sky showed him a flock of small white clouds going slowly down the wind. Moutonner， the French said. A homely and just word.
Father Conmee， reading his office， watched a flock of muttoning clouds over Rathcoffey. His thinsocked ankles were tickled by the stubble of Clongowes field. He walked there， reading in the evening， and heard the cries of the boys' lines at their play， young cries in the quiet evening. He was their rector： his reign was mild.
Father Conmee drew off his gloves and took his rededged breviary out. An ivory bookmark told him the page.
Nones. He should have read that before lunch. But lady Maxwell had come.
Father Conmee read in secret Pater and Ave and crossed his breast. Deus in adiutorium.
He wamked calmly and read mutely the nones， walking and reading till he came to Res in Beati immaculati： Principium verborum tuotum veritas： in eternum omnia iudicia iustitu tu&Aelig；.
A flushed young man came from a gap of a hedge and after him came a young woman with wild nodding daisies in her hand. The young man raised his cap abruptly： the young woman abruptly bent and with slow care detached from her light skirt a clinging twig.
Father Conmee blessed both gravely and turned a thin page of his breviary. Sin： Principes persecuti sunt me gratis： et a verbis tuis formidavit cor meum.
Corny Kelleher closed his long daybook and glanced with his drooping eye at a pine coffinlid sentried in a corner. He pulled himself erect， went to it and， spinning it on its axle， viewed its shape and brass furnishings. Chewing his blade of hay he laid the coffinlid by and came to the doorway. There he tilted his hatbrim to give shade to his eyes and leaned against the doorcase， looking idly out.
Father John Conmee stepped into the Dollymount tram on Newcomen bridge.
Corny Kelleher locked his largefooted boots and gazed， his hat downtilted， chewing his blade of hay.
Constable 57C， on his beat， stood to pass the time of day.
-- That's a fine day， Mr Kelleher.
-- Ay， Corny Kelleher said.
-- It's very close， the constable said.
Corny Kelleher sped a silent jet of hayjuice arching from his mouth while a generous white arm from a window in Eccles street flung forth a coin.
-- What's the best news？ he asked.
-- I seen that particular party last evening， the constable said with bated breath.
A onelegged sailor crutched himself round MacConnell's corner， skirting Rabaiotti's icecream car， and jerked himself up Eccles street. Towards Larry O'Rourke， in shirtsleeves in his doorway， he growled unamiably-- For England...
He swung himself violently forward past Katey and Boody Dedalus， halted and growled：
-- home and beauty.
J.J. O'Molloy's white careworn face was told that Mr Lambert was in the warehouse with a visitor.
A stout lady stopped， took a copper coin from her purse and dropped it into the cap held out to her. The sailor grumbled thanks and glanced sourly at the unheeding windows， sank his head and swung himself forward four strides.