My dear Mr. Darwin,—

If I did not know you so well, I should think that you are guilty of what our nurse calls ‘mock modesty.’ At least I know that if I, or anybody else, had written the book which I reviewed, your judgment would have been the first to endorse all I have said. I never allow personal friendship to influence what I say in reviews; and if I am so uniformly stupid as to ‘over-estimate the value of all you do,’ it is at any rate some consolation to know that my stupidity is so universally shared by all the men of my generation. But your letters are to me always psychological studies, and especially so when, as in this one, you seem without irony intentionally grim to refer to my work in juxtaposition with your own.¹

The proof-sheets are coming in, and I suppose the book will be out in a month or two. I do not know why they are so slow in setting up the type. But, as I said once before, this book will not be so good (or so little bad) as the one that is to follow.²

Ewart and I have been working at the Echinoderms again, and at last have found the internal nervous plexus. Also tried poisons, and proved still further the locomotor function of the pedicellariæ.³

I observed a curious thing about anemones.⁴ If a piece of food is placed in a pool or tank where a number are closed, in a few minutes they all expand: clearly they smell the food.

I am deeply sorry to hear that you feel ‘worn out,’ but cannot imagine that the reviewers have done with you yet.

The vivisection fight does not promise well. Like yourself, most of the champions do not like the idea.⁵

G. J. Romanes.