Simply Love by Mary Balogh

you,” he said, “to use a great variety of colors to produce the one the untutored eye thinks it sees when it looks at any object.”
    â€œMr. Upton,” David said. “The art master at Mama’s school.”
    â€œYou have learned the lesson well for one so young,” Mr. Butler said. “If you were to paint this same rock at a different time of day or in different weather, the colors would be different, would they not?”
    â€œAnd it would look different too,” David said. “Light is a funny thing. Light is not just light. Mr. Upton told me that too. Did you know, sir, that light is like the rainbow all the time—all those colors, even though we cannot see them?”
    â€œRemarkable, is it not?” Mr. Butler said. “It makes us realize that there are all sorts of things—millions of things—around us all the time that we are not aware of because there are limits to our senses. Does that make sense to you?”
    â€œYes, sir,” David said. “Sight, touch, smell, sound, and taste—five of them.” He counted them off on the fingers of one hand. “But maybe there are hundreds more that we do not have. Miss Martin told me that once.”
    Mr. Butler pointed at the place on the painting where the rock was joined to the rest of the promontory, held there, it seemed, by clumps of grass.
    â€œI like this,” he said. “That rock is going to fall soon and begin a new phase of its existence down on the beach, but at the moment it is clinging bravely to its life up here, and the life up here is holding on to it as long as it can. How clever of you to notice that. I do not believe I would have. Indeed, I have stood here many times and not noticed.”
    What Anne noticed was that David had moved from her side to stand closer to the easel—and Mr. Butler.
    â€œI can see the slope of the rock, with a hint of the depths below and the land above,” Mr. Butler said. “The perspective is really quite good. What did you mean when you said your painting was flat?”
    â€œIt…” For a few moments it seemed as if David could not find the words to explain what he meant. He pointed at the painting and made beckoning gestures with his fingers. “It just
stays
there. It is
flat
.”
    Mr. Butler turned to look at him, and Anne was struck again by his breathtaking good looks—and his kindness in giving time and attention to a child.
    â€œHave you ever painted with oils, David?” he asked.
    David shook his head.
    â€œThere aren’t any at the school,” he said. “Mr. Upton says that only watercolors are suitable for ladies. I am the only boy there.”
    â€œWatercolors are fine for gentlemen too,” Mr. Butler said. “And oils are fine for ladies. Some artists use one or the other. Some use both in different circumstances. But there are some artists who
need
to paint with oils. I believe you may be one of them. Oil paints help to create texture. They help the artist bring the painting off the canvas. They also help one paint with passion, if you are old enough to understand what that means. Perhaps your mama can have a talk with Mr. Upton when you return to school to see if there is any chance he can teach you to paint with oils. However, this watercolor is very, very good. Thank you for letting me see it.”
    David turned toward Anne, his face beaming.
    â€œDo you think Mr. Upton will, Mama?” he asked.
    â€œWe will have to talk with him,” she said, smiling down at him and pushing the lock of hair off his forehead again before glancing up to see Mr. Butler looking steadily at her.
    He took his leave then. He bade them all a good morning, put his hat back on, and touched his hand to the brim.
    â€œOh, Syd,” Lady Rosthorn said as he made his way back to the path, “I
do
wish you could come and paint with us someday.”
    He looked back.
    â€œI don’t think,