“I wish I were,” I returned. “At least I know I should rejoice in it, if it had been given me to be one. But why do you say so now?” “Because you have always some individual predominating idea, which would give interpretation to Nature while it gave harmony, reality, and individuality to your representation of her.” “I know what you mean,” I answered; “but I have no gift whatever in that direction. I have no idea of drawing, or of producing the effects of light and shade; though I think I have a little notion of colour--perhaps about as much as the little London boy, who stopped a friend of mine once to ask the way to the field where the buttercups grew, had of nature.” “I wish I could ask your opinion of some of my pictures.” “That I should never presume to give. I could only tell you what they made me feel, or perhaps only think. Some day I may have the pleasure of looking at them.” “May I offer you my address?” he said, and took a card from his pocket-book. “It is a poor place, but if you should happen to think of me when you are next in London, I shall be honoured by your paying me a visit.” “I shall be most happy,” I returned, taking his card.--“Did it ever occur to you, in reference to the subject we were upon a few minutes ago, how little you can do without shadow in making a picture?” “Little indeed,” answered Percivale. “In fact, it would be no picture at all.” “I doubt if the world would fare better without its shadows.” “But it would be a poor satisfaction, with regard to the nature of God, to be told that he allowed evil for artistic purposes.”