‘That’s easier, Mr. Ralston. “The Intimations.”’ ‘Byron?’
‘Oh! “The Don”—miles and miles, sir.’ ‘Where’s Shakespeare—eh?’
‘In the bosom of God Almighty.’
So cheerily the talk had gone, so rapidly, he had no taint of shyness left. Here was the man of his worship since he had first dared to play the pious truant from chapel, the one man of the whole world he esteemed the greatest and the wisest. They had talked for three minutes and he was at home with his deity, and yet had lost no tremor of the adoring thrill.
‘Good!’ said Ralston. ‘Dickens?’ Paul’s answer was nothing more than an inarticulate gurgle of pleasure, neither a laugh nor an exclamation. ‘Carlyle?’ Paul was silent, and Ralston asked in a doubtful voice: ‘Not read Carlyle?’
‘I’d go,’ said Paul in a half whisper, ‘from here to Chelsea on my hands and knees to see him.’
‘The best of magnets won’t draw lead,’ said Ralston, and at the time Paul was puzzled by the phrase, but he blushed with pleasure when he recalled it later on. ‘And Browning?’
‘Ugh!’ said Paul.
‘Ah, well, that’s natural. But, mind you, Mr. Armstrong, in a year or two you’ll feel humiliated to think of your present position.’
They talked, marching up and down the platform, until the train came.