Ninian joined them on the following day, very cheerless and irritable. It was impossible for him to enter the shipbuilding firm owing to his age, and so he had decided to enter the offices of a firm of engineers in London. "Anybody can build a damned railway," he said, "but it takes a man to build a ship. I'd love to build a liner ... one that could cross the Atlantic in four days!" "Four days!" Gilbert scoffed. "My dear Ninian, boats don't crawl across the ocean! People want boats that will take them to New York in twenty-four hours!..." "And now, young fellows!" he went on, "it's time that we thought seriously about our immortal souls!" "Oh, is it?" said Ninian. "Yes, it is," Gilbert replied. They had dined, and were now sitting in Gilbert's room in the lax attitude of people who have eaten well and are content. "Here we are," Gilbert went on, using his pipe as a modulator of his points, "four bright lads simply bursting with brains, and the question is, what is to become of us? The Boy: What Will He Become? Take Roger, for example, will he become Lord Chancellor of England, or a footling little Registrar of a footling County Court?..." "I haven't had a brief yet," Roger interrupted, "so that question's somewhat premature, isn't it?" "I'm not talking about _now_ ... I'm talking about the future," Gilbert replied. "We ought to have some notion of what we're going to do with our lives.... As a matter of fact," he continued, "your career's fairly certain, Roger. With all that brain oozing out of you, you're bound to become great. But what about little Ninian here? And Quinny? And me? Ninian's a discontented sort of bloke, and he's quite likely to make a mess of things unless we look after him. He may turn out to be a very great engineer or he may go back to Boveyhayne and play the turnip-headed squire!..." "Always rotting a chap," Ninian mumbled. "And Quinny ... what about little Quinny? He's written a novel!..." "Written a what?" Ninian demanded, sitting up sharply. "Have you, Quinny?" said Roger. Henry blushed and nodded his head. "It isn't good," he said. "I shall have to re-write it!" "My Lord," said Ninian, "fancy one of us writing a book!" Gilbert slapped him on the side of the head. "You forget, Ninian, that I've written a play!..." "A play's not a book!..." "_My_ plays are books," Gilbert retorted. "Well, now," he went on, "what's to become of little Quinny: a tip-top novelist with a limited circulation or a third-rater who sells millions?" "What about yourself?" Ninian said. "I'm coming to myself. Will I become a great dramatist, like Shakespeare and Bernard Shaw and all those chaps, or merely turn out hack plays?..." "And the answer is?" "I don't know, but I'll tell you in ten years' time. We're a brainy lot of lads, and I'm the brainiest of the lot!..." "Oh, no, you're not," said Ninian. "I've quite a respectable amount of brain myself, but the very best brain in the room belongs to Roger. Doesn't it, Roger?"