By the latter rather condensed expression Pip meant to express his surprise that such a clever father should have produced such a stupid son. "We don't all get ten talents, old man," said his father. "But soon, I dare say, when you are qualified, there will be lots--" Pip put down his glass of port. "Dad, I shall never be qualified," he said. "Why?" "Because I haven't got it in me. You are so clever that you can't conceive what a fool's brain can be like. I tell you honestly that this thing is beyond me, Governor. I have worked pretty hard--" "I know that," said his father heartily. "--And I think I am rather more at sea now than I was four years ago. I have learned a few things by heart--anything that can be picked up by those jingles and tips that coaches give one--and that is just about all. Fancy me going over a patient's ribs and mumbling rhymes to myself to remind me what part of his anatomy I had got to!" Father and son laughed. Some of the _memoria technica_ of the medical student are peculiar. "I have been meaning to tell you a long time," continued Pip, "but I saw you were keen on my getting through, if possible, so I stuck to it. I think I know my limits. I'm not cut out for the learned professions. Fact is, I'm a blamed fool." They smoked on silently after that. The doctor was not altogether surprised at Pip's outburst, for he had lately been realising, from the casual utterances of lecturers and examiners of his acquaintance, that Pip's prospects were hopeless. But he was sadly disappointed for all that. He had been a lonely man all his life, and now, especially that his health was uncertain, he realised the unhappy fact that his son--his big, strong, healthy son, to whose intellectual companionship he had looked forward so eagerly--was never to give him a shoulder to lean on save in a physical sense. At this moment, much to the relief of both, the door opened and Pipette came in. She was just twenty-two, and to the tired man in the armchair by the fire she was her mother over again. She threw off her opera-cloak and wrap and slipped into the chair beside her father. Then after one brief glance into his face she inquired-- "Well, old boy, what's the trouble?" "Pip wants me to go for a holiday," said her father. "Carried unanimously!" announced Pipette. "When shall we start?" "Can't be done at present. Too busy." "Get somebody from the hospital staff to do your work." "Hear, hear!" said Pip. Dr. Wilmot gazed into the fire. Presently he said,-- "It's not altogether professional work. Pip, you said just now that you were a blamed fool. Your father is another." "Let us hear all about it," said Pipette maternally. "Well, I am a prosperous man as professional men go. But a few years ago I realised a good many of my investments--" "What does that mean?" "I sacrificed my savings to get ready money, to finance that private cancer-research commission that Sir John Lindon and I got up,--you remember, Pip?"