“I am not convinced, as yet,” said Lewes.
“Oh, surely,” expostulated Challis.
“Not from objective, personal evidence. Let us put Crashaw out of our minds for the moment.”
“Very well; go on, state your case.”
“He has, so far, made four remarks in our presence,” said Lewes, gesticulating with his walking stick. “Two of them can be neglected; his repetition of your words, which he did not understand, and his condescending promise to study your library.”
“Now, putting aside the preconception with which we entered the cottage, was there really anything in the other two remarks? Were they not the type of simple, unreasoning questions which one may often hear from the mouth of a child of that age? ‘What shall I learn from your books?’ Well, it is the natural question of the ignorant child, who has no conception of the contents of books, no experience which would furnish material for his imagination.”
“Well?”
“The second remark is more explicable still. It is a remark we all make in childhood, in some form or another. I remember quite well at the age of six or seven asking my mother: ‘Which is me, my soul or my body?’ I was brought up on the Church catechism. But you at once accepted these questions—which, I maintain, were questions possible in the mouth of a simple, ignorant child—in some deep, metaphysical acceptation. Don’t you think, sir, we should wait for further evidence before we attribute any phenomenal intelligence to this child?”
“Quite the right attitude to take, Lewes—the scientific attitude,” replied Challis. “Let’s go by the lane,” he added, as they reached the entrance to the wood.