Bronze by gold, Miss Douce's head by Miss Kennedy's head, over the crossblind of the Ormond bar heard the viceregal hoofs go by, ringing steel.
– Is that her? asked Miss Kennedy.
Miss Douce said yes, sitting with his ex, pearl gray and eau de Nil.
– Exquisite contrast, Miss Kennedy said.
When all agog Miss Douce said eagerly:
– Look at the fellow in the tall silk.
– Who? Where? gold asked more eagerly.
– In the second carriage, Miss Douce's wet lips said, laughing in the sun. He's looking. Mind till I see.
She darted, bronze, to the backmost corner, flattening her face against the pane in a halo of hurried breath.
Her wet lips tittered:
– He's killed looking back.
– O wept! Aren't men frightful idiots?
Miss Kennedy sauntered sadly from bright light, twining a loose hair behind an ear. Sauntering sadly, gold no more, she twisted twined a hair. Sadly she twined in sauntering gold hair behind a curving ear.
– It's them has the fine times, sadly then she said.
And is it Bloomsday again? Then Happy Bloomsday once again to my mountain flowers.