"You've given ME things, and you're trying to convict me of having lost the sweet sense of them.

But you can't do it.

Where my heart's concerned I'm a walking reliquary.

Pink paper?
_I_ use gold paper--and the finest of all, the gold paper of the mind." He gave a flip with a fingernail to his cigarette and looked at its quickened fire; after which he pursued very familiarly, but with a kindness that of itself qualified the mere humour of the thing: "Don't talk, my dear child, as if you didn't really know me for the best friend you have in the world." As soon as he had spoken he pulled out his watch, so that if his words had led to something of a pause this movement offered a pretext for breaking it.

Nanda asked the hour and, on his replying "Five-fifteen," remarked that there would now be tea on the terrace with every one gathered at it.