They had reached the canal bridge and, turning from their course, went on by the trees. A crude grey light,mirrored in the sluggish water and a smell of wet branches over their heads seemed to war against the course of Stephen's thought.
—But you have not answered my question, said Lynch. What is art? What is the beauty it expresses?
—That was the first definition I gave you, you sleepyheaded wretch, said Stephen, when I began to try to think out the matter for myself. Do you remember the night? Cranly lost his temper and began to talk about Wicklow bacon.