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Ned Lambert glanced back. Bloom, he said, Madame Marion Tweedy that was, is, I mean, the soprano. She's his wife. O, to be sure, John Henry Menton said. I haven't seen her for some time. He was a finelooking woman. I danced with her, wait, fifteen seventeen golden years ago, at Mat Dillon's in Roundtown. And a good armful she was. He looked behind through the others. What is he? he asked.
Wonder what her father gave for it. Old style. Ah yes! of course. Bought it at the governor's auction. Got a short knock. Hard as nails at a bargain, old Tweedy. Yes, sir. At Plevna that was. I rose from the ranks, sir, and I'm proud of it. Still he had brains enough to make that corner in stamps. Now that was farseeing.
"Gwenlyn insists that I have the talent of finding and using talents." "A mild talent, Father," said Gwenlyn. "Not enough to make you revolting. But " A door opened. A tweedy man with a small mustache stood in the doorway. "I believe I'm wanted?" he said offhandedly. Morgan introduced him. His name was Logan. He was the lightning calculator, the mathematical talent of Talents, Incorporated.
A pure mare's nest. I am a man misunderstood. I am being made a scapegoat of. I am a respectable married man, without a stain on my character. I live in Eccles street. My wife, I am the daughter of a most distinguished commander, a gallant upstanding gentleman, what do you call him, Majorgeneral Brian Tweedy, one of Britain's fighting men who helped to win our battles.
BLOOM: Thank you, sir. Yes, sir. Madam Tweedy is in her bath, sir. MARION: He ought to feel himself highly honoured. I'm in my pelt. Only my new hat and a carriage sponge. BELLA: What? What is it? MARION: Let him look, the pishogue! Pimp! And scourge himself!
Beside the young man he looked also at the photo of the lady now his 1440 legal wife who, he intimated, was the accomplished daughter of Major Brian Tweedy and displayed at an early age remarkable proficiency as a singer having even made her bow to the public when her years numbered barely sweet sixteen.
Bors shook his hand. The tweedy man sat down. He drew out a pipe and began to fill it with conscious exactitude. He looked remarkably like a professor of mathematics who modestly pretended to be just another commuter. He dressed the part: slightly untidy hair; bulldog pipe; casual, expensive sports shoes. "I understand," he said negligently, "that you want some calculations made."
Mebbe ye seen her when she was old an' broke down but that wa'n't Kate no more'n I'm Bill Tweedy, which I ain't. Kate was as handsome as a golden robin. Hair yeller as his breast an' feet as spry as his wings an' a voice as sweet as his song, an' eyes as bright as his'n yis, sir ye couldn't beat her fer looks. That was years and years ago.
"And then, this morning, he would buy a new bicycle a different make from his own, at the nearest shop; would rig himself out, at some ready-made tailor's, with a fresh tourist suit probably an ostentatiously tweedy bicycling suit; and, with that in his luggage-carrier, would make straight on his machine for the country.
You whatwhat? That's the bucko that'll organise her, take my tip. 'Twixt me and you Caddareesh. Pride of Calpe's rocky mount, the ravenhaired daughter of Tweedy. There grew she to peerless beauty where loquat and almond scent the air. The gardens of Alameda knew her step: the garths of olives knew and bowed. The chaste spouse of Leopold is she: Marion of the bountiful bosoms.
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