"Odd," he said abruptly. "I always think of Balzac when I look into the streets of Paris, and when I give myself time to think. Balzac sums up Paris to me."
"Yes," said the younger man, talking for the first time with an appearance of genuine interest in the conversation; "but things must be greatly changed since that time even in Paris, you know."
"Changed? Not a bit of it. The outsides of course. The Louvre was half a ruin the other day, and now it's getting all right again. That's change, if you like to call it so. But the heart of things is just the same. Balzac stands for Paris, believe you me."
"I don't believe a word of it—not a word! I mean—excuse me—that I don't agree with you."
"Yes, yes: I understand what you mean. I'm not offended. Well?"
"Well—I don't believe a bit that men and women ever were like that. You mean to tell me that people were made without hearts in Paris or anywhere else? Do you believe in a place peopled by cads and sneaks and curs—and the women half again as bad as the men?"
The young man grew warm, and the elder drew him out, and they discussed Balzac as they stood in the balcony and looked down on silent moonlighted Paris. The elder man smoked and smiled and shrugged his shoulders good-humoredly. The younger was as full of gesture and animation as if his life depended on the controversy.
"All right," the elder said at last. "I like to hear you talk, but Paris is Balzac to me still. Going to be in London some time?"
"I suppose so: yes," in a tone of sudden depression and discontent.
"I wish we might meet. I live in London, and I wish you would come and see me when we get back from our—holiday we'll call it."