"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.

"You're wrong, Julius," said Embro,--"quite wrong. Keep your imagination
for painting and poetry. In science it just leads you the devil's own
dance, and fills you with delusions."

Julius paused, and bent on him his peculiar look, which made a man feel
he was being seen through and through.

"I am surprised, Embro," said he, "that one can live all your years and