Bloomsday! she hated to be nothing but an echo, yet "forty quid?" was what she said, "and have you got that sort of money?" and he shot her a look that said it all, so they carried on walking till she said: "and what are ye expectin me to do, Mr Bloom? somehow by sleight of hand distract the pair o them, and try yer Grannie's key in the lock, without either o them noticin?" and Mr Bloom looked up at the sky, wondering if he should have brought his umbrella with him but it was a balmy afternoon so he supposed he would be alright without it: "you are a Mental Detective, aren't you Nancy?" and she laughed, couldn't help it, couldn't have stopped herself if she'd wanted to, and Mr Bloom looked embarrassed, suddenly aware of what it looked like – a middle-aged man with a young woman, heck! young enough to be his daughter! "would ye look at that," they would be saying, "an him auld enough tae be her faither, he should be ashamed o hissel, an her a slip o a girl, what's the country comin tae?" but when she stopped laughing they continued on their way, past a pub with the door propped open and some maestro bangin away at The Barcarole on a honky-tonk pianny, until she asked: "is it the mental bit ye'r intrested in? ye know I amn't a Spiritualist, or Medium? no communin wi Spirits or conjurin up yer Great-Grannie out o ectoplasm so ye can ask her yersel what's in the box," he glanced at her, "Casket!" she corrected herself, "could it be sumdy's ashes?" she asked and that stopped him in his tracks: "you know," he mused, "there was a story o my faimly – no the Blooms, the Kardashians - havin had a connection to Catherine the Great an wan o them, I don't remember who, takkin custody o some artefacts or mementoes o the Empress after she kicked the bucket, but surely not, it's too preposterous, what are the odds?" – and after a moment's calculation, Nancy said: "about a googol tae yin, if ye ask me; relics? she wasny a Saint was she, yer wummin, Catherine?" and Bloom shook his head, "I haven't a skoobie!" wondering vaguely if he was playing a game of chess with her which he was looking like to lose like some pathetic selfmate, hoist by his own petard, betrayed by his own queen, "do you have the faintest idea how the newspaper business works, Nancy?" so when she shook her head he began to explain how the proprietor earns the return on his investment: "it's not from the sales of the paper, newspapers are worthless, half of them end up hangin from a piece of string in a lavvy for ye tae wipe yer arse, pardon my French, no, it's from the advertising revenue, the amount of space in the paper filled by advertisements which I, Leopold Bloom, have procured, but I amn't a pimp, oh no, oh no, I'm a prostitute just like all the other whores who write the stories no-one wants to read – ha ha, they make most of it up anyway – so businesses pay hard cash for space in The Daily Pictorial to promote their goods or services and that's the only purpose of the paper, to deliver those advertisements into the hands of the ignoramuses who can barely pay the rent let alone shell out for all the goods an services advertised, and when you deduct the costs of producin the paper: payin the wages of all us whores who slave away to produce it, me, writers an editors, photographers, compositors, printers and distributors an even the newsagents who sell them to the punters, and the newsprint itsel which is the quality of the cheapest lavvy paper which is about what it all is anyway, take all that away from the money paid by the advertisers, an what's left enables Lord Kilmainham, who's the proprietor, to live in a fancy house with his fancy wife an her fancy set an drive in his fancy car to fancy restaurants past all the punters and advertisers and whores who've conspired to prostrate their bodies in the mud for the dainty Lord and Lady Kilmainham to live their lives without ever gettin a smear o mud from the gutter on their fancy shoes and clothes and manicured hands and big cigars an if they ever notice us it's from such an elevated height that we are just tiny ants crawlin about on the surface o the planet dyin a wee bit more every day after day after day!" and having said all that without once taking a breath, he was forced to sit down on a wall and Nancy, worried by his wheezing, sat beside him and waited for him to get his breath back.