My London schoolfellow, the athlete, spent a summer with us, but the friendship of boyhood, founded upon action and adventure, was drawing to an end.  He was still my superior in all physical activity and climbed to places among the rocks that even now are uncomfortable memories, but I had begun to criticize him.  One morning I proposed a journey to Lambay Island, and was contemptuous because he said we should miss our mid-day meal.  We hoisted a sail on our small boat and ran quickly over the nine miles and saw on the shore a tame sea-gull, while a couple of boys, the sons of a coastguard, ran into the water in their clothes to pull us to land, as we had read of savage people doing.  We spent an hour upon the sunny shore and I said, “I would like to live here always, and perhaps some day I will.”  I was always discovering places where I would like to spend my whole life.  We started to row home, and when dinner-time had passed for about an hour, the athlete lay down on the bottom of the boat doubled up with the gripes.  I mocked at him and at his fellow-countrymen whose stomachs struck the hour as if they were clocks.

Our natural history, too, began to pull us apart.  I planned some day to write a book about the changes through a twelve-month among the creatures of some hole in the rock, and had some theory of my own, which I cannot remember, as to the colour of sea-anémones:  and after much hesitation, trouble and bewilderment, was hot for argument in refutation of Adam and Noah and the Seven Days.  I had read Darwin and Wallace, Huxley and Haeckel, and would spend hours on a holiday plaguing a pious geologist, who, when not at some job in Guinness’s brewery, came with a hammer to look for fossils in the Howth Cliffs.  “You know,” I would say, “that such and such human remains cannot be less, because of the strata they were found in, than fifty thousand years old.”  “Oh!” he would answer, “they are an isolated instance.”  And once when I pressed hard my case against Ussher’s chronology, he begged me not to speak of the subject again.  “If I believed what you do,” he said, “I could not live a moral life.”  But I could not even argue with the athlete who still collected his butterflies for the adventure’s sake, and with no curiosity but for their names.  I began to judge his intelligence, and to tell him that his natural history had as little to do with science as his collection of postage stamps.  Even during my school days in London, influenced perhaps by my father, I had looked down upon the postage stamps.