They were heavily scratched , but the power was almost exactly that of his own pair , which he slid into the lama 's hand , saying : ` Try these . ' ' A feather ! A very feather upon the face . ' The old man turned his head delightedly and wrinkled up his nose . ` How scarcely do I feel them ! How clearly do I see ! ' ` They be bilaur -- crystal -- and will never scratch . May they help thee to thy River , for they are thine . ' ' I will take them and the pencils and the white note-book , ' said the lama , ` as a sign of friendship between priest and priest -- and now -- ' He fumbled at his belt , detached the open-work iron pincers , and laid it on the Curator 's table . ` That is for a memory between thee and me -- my pencase . It is something old -- even as I am . ' It was a piece of ancient design , Chinese , of an iron that is not smelted these days ; and the collector 's heart in the Curator 's bosom had gone out to it from the first . For no persuasion would the lama resume his gift . ` When I return , having found the River , I will bring thee a written picture of the Padma Samthora such as I used to make on silk at the lamassery . Yes -- and of the Wheel of Life , ' he chuckled , ` for we be craftsmen together , thou and I. ' The Curator would have detained him : they are few in the world who still have the secret of the conventional brush-pen Buddhist pictures which are , as it were , half written and half drawn . But the lama strode out , head high in air , and pausing an instant before the great statue of a Bodhisat in meditation , brushed through the turnstiles . Kim followed like a shadow . What he had overheard excited him wildly . This man was entirely new to all his experience , and he meant to investigate further , precisely as he would have investigated a new building or a strange festival in Lahore city . The lama was his trove , and he purposed to take possession .
XXXXX 's mother had been Irish , too .
Buddhist Curator Kim Samthora days lamassery note-book pincers trove turnstiles