"'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.