"It's not brighter than the reality, is it?" said Lucian.
"I—don't—know," answered Mr. Moore, straightening himself, and looking about him as if to observe the reality, which he evidently was now noting for the first time. "You have put in a butterfly," he added, returning to his inspection; "that is—if it isn't a bird? There are no butterflies here now; has there been one here?"
"There should have been; it's the very place for them," Lucian declared.
"I don't think, Lucian, that there's any certainty about that; I myself have often searched for them in places where it seemed to me they should be; they are never there."
Garda again gave way to merriment, hiding it and her face on Margaret's shoulder.
"Hasn't your sky rather too vivid a blue, Lucian?" Mr. Moore went on, his face again close to the picture.
"Well, sir, that's as we see it; I see that color in the sky, you know."
"How can you see it if it is not there?" demanded his relative, with his temperate dwelling upon his point. And he transferred his gaze from the sketch to the young man.
"But it is there for me. It's the old question of the two kinds of truth."
"There are not two kinds, I think, Lucian," responded the clergyman, and this time he spoke with decision.