 Mr. Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls. He liked thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a stuffed roast heart, liver slices, fried with crust crumbs, fried hen-cods rose. Most of all, he liked grilled mutton kidneys, which gave to his palate a fine tang of faintly scented urine. Kidneys were in his mind as he moved about the kitchen softly, writing her breakfast things on the Humpty Tray. Gelid light and air were in the kitchen, but out of doors, gentle summer morning everywhere. Made him feel a bit peckish. The coals were reddening. Another slice of bread and butter, three, four, right. She didn't like her plate full, right. He turned from the tray, lifted the kettle off the hob and set its sideways on the fire. It sat there dull and squat, its spout stuck out. Cup of tea soon, good. Two letters and a card lay on the hall floor. He stooped and gathered them. Mrs. Marion Bloom, his quick heart slowed at once. Old hand, Mrs. Marion. Holding! Entering the bedroom, he half closed his eyes and walked through warm yellow twilight towards her touselt head. Who were the letters for? He looked at them. Mollengar, Millie, a letter for me from Millie and a card to you and a letter for you. He laid her card and letter on the twill bedspread near the curve of her knees. Do you want the blind up? Letting the blind up by gentle tugs halfway, his backward eye saw her glance at the letter and tuck it under her pillow. At that too, he asked, turning, she was reading the card propped on her elbow. She got the things, she said. He waited till she had laid the card aside and curled herself back slowly with a snug sigh. Hurry up with that, I'm tired. The kettle is boiling, but he delayed to clear the chair. Her striped petticoat tossed soil linen and lifted all in an armful onto the foot of the bed. As he went down the kitchen stairs, she called. Poo-dee! What? Scald the teapot. And the boil sure enough. A plume of steam from the spout. Scalded and rinsed out the teapot and put in four full spoons of tea. Tilted the kettle then to let the water flow in. Having set it to draw, he took off the kettle and crushed the pan flat on the live coals and watched the lump of butter slide and melt. While he unwrapped the kidney, the cat mewed hungrily against him. Give her too much meat and she won't mouse. Say they won't eat pork kosher here. He let the blood smeared paper fall to her and dropped the kidney amid the sizzling butter sauce. Pepper. He sprinkled it through his fingers ring-wise from the chipped egg cup. Then he slit open his letter, glancing down the page and over. Thanks. New Tam. Mr. Kotlin. Lock-old-owned picnic. Young student. Blazes Boyland's seaside girls. The tea was drawn. He filled his own mustache cup. Sham crowned Arby. Smiling. Silly Millie's birthday gift. Only five she was then. Oh wait, four. I gave her the ambroide necklace she broke. Putting pieces of folded brown paper in the letterbox for her. Oh Millie Bloom. You are my darling. You are my looking glass from night to morning. I'd rather have you without a farthing than Katie Keough with her ass and garden. Poor old Professor Godwin. Dreadful old case. Still, he was a courteous old chap. Old-fashioned way. He used to bow molly off the platform. The little mirror in his silk hat. The night Millie brought it into the parlour. Oh look at what I found your Professor Godwin's hat. Oh, we laughed. Sex breaking out even then. Purt little piece she was. He prodded a fork into the kidney and slapped it over. Then fitted the teapot on the tray. It's hump bumped as he took it up. Everything on it. Bread and butter, four, sugar, spoon, her cream. Yes. He carried it upstairs. His thumb hooked in the teapot handle. Nudging the door open with his knee. He carried the tray in and set it on the chair by the bed head. What a time you were. She set the brasses jingling as she raised herself briskly. An elbow on the pillow. He looked calmly down on her bulk and between her large soft bubs sloping within her nightdress like a she-goats udder. Warmths of her couched body rose on the air mingling with the fragrance of the tea she poured. A strip of torn envelope peeped from under the dimpled pillow. The act of going, he stayed to straighten the bedspread. Who's the letter from? Old Hand Marion. Oh, Boyland. He's bringing the programme. Oh, what are you singing? Lachi Dara with JC Doyle and Love's Old Sweet Song. Her full lips, drinking, smiled. By the stale smell that incense leaves next day like foul flower water. Would you like the window open a little? She doubled a slice of bread into her mouth, asking, What time is the funeral? Eleven, I think. I didn't see the paper. Following the pointing of her finger, he took up a leg of her soiled drawers from the bed. No. Then a twisted grey garter looped round her stocking, rumpled, shiny soul. No, that book. Oh, other stocking. Her petticoat. Must have filed down. He felt here and there. Volio in on vorve. Wander, as she pronounces that right, Volio. Not in the bed. Must have slid down. He stooped and lifted the valance. The book fallen, sprawled against the bulge of the orange-keyed chamber pot. Show here. I put a mark in it. There's a word I wanted to ask you. She swallowed a draft of tea from her cup held by not-handle and having wiped her fingertips smartly on the blanket, began to search the text with the hairpin, till she reached the word. Metham-what? Here. What does that mean? He leaned downwards and read near her polished thumbnail. Metham-psychosis. Yes. Who's he when he's at home? Ah, Metham-psychosis. It's Greek. From the Greek, that means the trans-migration of souls. Oh, rocks. Tell us in plain words. He smiled, glass glancing past hands at her mocking eye. The same young eyes the first night after the charades, Dolphin's barn. He turned over the smudged pages. Did you finish it? Yes. There's nothing smutty in it. Is she in love with the first fellow all the time? I never read it. Do you want another? Yes. Get another of Paul de Coxe. Nice name he has. She poured more tea into her cup, watching its flow sideways. Us get that Capitol Street library book renewed or they'll write to Kearney McGarantor. Reincarnation. That's the word. Some people believe that we go on living in another body after death that we lived before. They call it reincarnation. That we all lived before on the earth thousands of years ago or some other planet. They say we've forgotten it. Some say they remember their past lives. The sluggish cream wound curdling spirals through her tea. Better reminder of the word. Metempsychosis. An example would be better. An example, he turned the pages back. Metempsychosi is what the ancient Greeks called it. They used to believe you could be changed into an animal or a tree, for instance. What they called nymphs, for instance. Her spoon ceased to stir up the sugar. She gazed straight before her, inhaling through her arched nostrils. There's a smell of burn. Did you leave something on the fire? Oh, the kidney. He fitted the book roughly into his inner pocket and stubbing his toes against the broken commode, hurried out towards the smell, stepping hastily down the stairs where he hid Stork's legs. Pungent smoke shot up in an angry jet from the side of the pan. By prodding a prong of the fork under the kidney, he detached it and turned it turtle on its back. Only a little burned. He tossed it off the pan onto a plate and let the scanty brown gravy trickle over it. Cup of tea now. He sat down, cut and buttered a slice of the loaf. He shore away the burnt flesh and flung it to the cat. Then he put a forkful into his mouth, chewing with discernment the toothsome, client meat. Done to a turn. A mouthful of tea. Then he cut away dyes of bread, soft one in the gravy and put it in his mouth. What was that about some young student and a picnic? He creased out the letter at his side, reading it slowly as he chewed, sopping another dye of bread in the gravy and raising it to his mouth.