reflected.  That’s the way things actually happen in the real world.  But in the world of ‘Let’s pretend,’ in the world of art, they don’t happen so.  There everything happens right, and everybody does, not so much what they should (that might sometimes be dull), but exactly what we want them to do—­which is so very much better.  That is the world of your art and my art.  Unfortunately all the pictures in the galleries weren’t painted just for you and me; but you’ll find, if you look for them, plenty that were, and the rest don’t matter.  Those were painted, no doubt, for some one else.  But if you could find the some one else for whom they were painted, the some one else whose world of ‘Let’s pretend’ was just these pictures that don’t belong to your world, and if they could tell you about their world of ‘Let’s pretend,’ ten to one you’d find it just as good a world as your own, and you’d soon learn to ‘pretend’ that way too.

Well, the purpose of this book is to take you into a number of worlds of ‘Let’s pretend,’ most of which I daresay will be new to you, and perhaps you will find some of them quite delightful places.  I’m sure you can’t help liking St. Jerome’s Cell when you come to it.  It’s not a bit like any room we can find anywhere in the world to-day, but wouldn’t it be joyful if we could?  What a good time we could have there with the tame lion (not a bit like any lion in the Zoo, but none the worse for that) and the jolly bird, and all St. Jerome’s little things.  I should like to climb on to his platform and sit in his chair and turn over his books, though I don’t believe they’d be interesting to read, but they’d certainly be pretty to look at.  If you and I were there, though, we should soon be out away behind, looking round the corner, and finding all sorts of odd places that unfortunately can’t all get into the picture, only we know they’re there, down yonder corridor, and from what the painter shows us we can invent the rest for ourselves.

One of the troubles of a painter is that he can’t paint every detail of things as they are in nature.  A primrose, when you first see it, is just a little yellow spot.  When you hold it in your hand you find it made up of petals round a tiny centre with little things in it.  If you take a magnifying glass you can see all its details multiplied.  If you put a tiny bit of it under a microscope, ten thousand more little details come out, and so it might go on as long as you went on magnifying.  Now a picture can’t be like that.  It just has to show you the general look of things as you see them from an ordinary distance.  But there comes in another kind of trouble.  How do you see things?  We don’t all see the same things in the same way.  Your mother’s face looks very different to you from its look to a mere person passing in the street.  Your own room has a totally different aspect to you from what it bears to a casual visitor.  The things you specially love have a way of standing