“Do you know your Balzac?” he asked.

“Oh, yes,” said Paul.

“I wonder if you do,” said Colonel Winwood.  “I’m rather a Balzacian myself.”

“I can’t say I’ve read all Balzac.  That’s a colossal order,” said Paul, rather excited-for, in his limited acquaintance with cultivated folk, Colonel Winwood was the only human being who could claim acquaintance with one of the literary gods of his idolatry—­ “but I know him pretty well.  I can’t stand his ’Theatre’—­that’s footle—­but the big things—­’Le Pere Goriot,’ ‘La Cousine Bette,’ ’Cesar Birotteau’—­what a great book ‘Cesar Birotteau’ is!—­”

“You’re right,” said Colonel Winwood, forgetful of any possible barriers between himself and the young enthusiast.  “It’s one of the four or five great books, and very few people recognize it.”

“‘Le Lys dans la Vallee,’” said Paul.

“There’s another—­”

And they talked for half an hour of the Baron Nucingen, and Rastignac, and Hulot, and Bixiou, and Lousteau, and Gobsec, and Gaudissart, and Vautrin, and many another vivid personage in the human comedy.

“That man could have gone on writing for a hundred years,” cried Paul, “and he could have exhausted all the possibilities of human life.”

Colonel Winwood smiled courteously.  “We have a bond in Balzac,” said he.  “But I must go.  My sister said I mustn’t tire you.”  He rose.  “We’re having a lot of people down here this week for the shooting.  There’ll be good sport.  Pity you’re not well enough to join us.”

Paul smiled.  He had one of his flashes of tact, “I’m afraid,” said he modestly, “that I’ve never fired off a gun in my life.”

“What?” cried the Colonel.

“It’s true.”

Colonel Winwood looked at him once more.  “It’s not many young men,” said he, “who would dare to make such a confession.”

“But what is the good of lying?” asked Paul, with the eyes of a cherub.

“None that I know of,” replied the Colonel.  He returned to his chair and rested his hand on the back.  “You play golf, anyhow,” said he, pointing to the brown canvas bag in the corner.

“Oh, yes,” said Paul.

“Any good?”

“Fair to middling.”

“What’s your handicap?” asked the Colonel, an enthusiastic though inglorious practitioner of the game.

“One,” said Paul.

“The deuce it is!” cried the Colonel.  “Mine is fifteen.  You must give me a lesson or two when you pull round.  We’ve a capital course here.”

“That’s very kind of you,” said Paul, “but I’m afraid I shall be well enough for ordinary purposes long before I’m able to handle a golf club.”

“What do you mean?”

“This silly pleurisy.  It will hang about for ages!”

“Well?”

“I’ll have to go my ways from here long before I can play.”

“Any great hurry?”

“I can’t go on accepting your wonderful hospitality indefinitely,” said Paul.