l laughed again. "When one is on the tramp one's choice of books is
limited by their cubical content. One couldn't take Gibbon, for
instance, or a complete Balzac."

Colonel Winwood tugged at his drooping moustache and again scrutinized
the frank and exceedingly attractive youth. His astonishing perfection
of feature was obvious to anybody. Yet any inconsiderable human--a
peasant of the Campagna, a Venetian gondolier, a swaggering brigand of
Macedonia--could be astonishingly beautiful. And, being astonishingly
beautiful, that was the beginning and end of him. But behind this
merely physical attractiveness of his guest glowed a lambent
intelligence, quick as lightning. There was humorous challenge in those
laughing and lucent dark eyes.

"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,"
sa