As soon as we move we lose that visual experience and get another, and to recover the one we lost we must go back where we were before.

When we say we see a tree at a distance, we must mean, then, that we know from certain visual experiences which we have that by moving a certain distance we will be able to touch a tree.

And what does it mean to move a certain distance?
In the last analysis it means to us to have a certain quantity of movement sensations.
Thus the real world of things, for which experiences of sight serve as signs, is a world revealed in experiences of touch and movement, and when we speak of real positions, distances, and magnitudes, we are always referring to this world.

But this is a world revealed in our experience, and it does not seem a hopeless task to discover what may properly be called real and what should be described as merely apparent, when both the real and the apparent are open to our inspection.
Can we not find in this analysis a satisfactory explanation of the plain man's claim that under certain circumstances he sees the tree as it is and under others he does not?
What he is really asserting is that one visual experience gives him better information regarding the real thing, the touch thing, than does another.
But what shall we say of his claim that the tree is really green, and only looks blue under certain circumstances?
Is it not just as true that the tree only looks green under certain circumstances?
Is color any part of the touch thing?
Is it ever more than a sign of the touch thing?
How can one color be more real than another?
Now, we may hold to Berkeley's analysis and maintain that, in general, the real world, as contrasted with the apparent, means to us the world that is revealed in experiences of touch and movement; and yet we may admit that the word "real" is sometimes used in rather different senses.
It does not seem absurd for a woman to Say: This piece of silk really is yellow; it only looks white under this light.

We all admit that a white house may look pink under the rays of the setting sun, and we never call it a pink house.