A bishop keeps on saying at the age of eighty what he was told to say when he was a boy of eighteen, and as a natural consequence he always looks absolutely delightful.
Your mysterious young friend, whose name you have never told me, but whose picture really fascinates me, never thinks.

I feel quite sure of that.

He is some brainless beautiful creature who should be always here in winter when we have no flowers to look at, and always here in summer when we want something to chill our intelligence.

Don't flatter yourself, Basil: you are not in the least like him." "You don't understand me, Harry," answered the artist.

"Of course I am not like him.