"You're too high-falutin for me, Julius," said Embro, shaking his head. "But my opinion, founded on my knowledge, is that this story is a hallucination of the young woman's noddle!"
"And how much, Embro," laughed Julius, rising to leave the circle, "is the argument advanced by your ticketing the case with that long word?"
"To say 'hallucination,'" quoth Lefevre, "is a convenient way of giving inquiry the slip."
"My dear Embro," said Julius,—and he spoke with an emphasis, and looked down on Embro with a bright vivacity of eye, which forewarned the circle of one of his eloquent flashes: a smile of expectant enjoyment passed round,—"hallucination is the dust-heap and limbo of the meanly-equipped man of science to-day, just as witchcraft was a few hundred years ago. The poor creature of science long ago, when he came upon any pathological or psychological manifestation he did not understand, used to say, 'Witchcraft! Away with it to the limbo!' To-day he says, 'Hallucination! Away with it to the dust-heap!' It is a pity," said he, with a laugh, "you ever took to science, Embro."
"And why, may I ask?" said Embro.
"Oh, you'd have been great as an orthodox theologian of the Kirk; the cocksureness of theology would have suited you like your own coat. You are not at home in science, for you have no imagination."
It was characteristic of the peculiar regard in which Julius was held that whatever he said or did appeared natural and pleasant,—like the innocent actions and the simple, truthful speech of a child. Not even Embro was offended with these last words of his: the others laughed; Embro smiled, though with a certain sourness.
"Pooh, Julius!" said he; "what are you talking about? Science is the examination of facts, and what has imagination to do with that? Reason, sir, is what you want!"
"My dear Embro," said Julius, "there are several kinds of facts. There are, for instance, big facts and little facts,—clean facts and dirty facts. Imagination raises you and gives you a high and comprehensive view of them all; your mere reason keeps you down in some noisome corner, like the man with the muck-rake."
"Hear, hear!" cried the journalist and the artist heartily.