“Hush!” said Gypsy, taking her on his knee.
“Music over the water ... the siesta at noon ... the click of castanets, the serenata ... the rugged firs be-diamonded with frost, the orange groves in flower ... the Aurora Borealis....” The P.A.’s voice trailed off and his eyes closed.
That night when their friends had gone, Ginger got down the little red pillar-box and looked defiantly at Gypsy. But Gypsy only said, “If you can’t shake it out we’ll prise it open with the fork.”
However, with a good deal of shaking they got out three-and-elevenpence, and that was practically all it contained.
“I’m afraid it won’t quite run to Switzerland,” said Gypsy.
“No,” said Ginger, “but it will to Salmon—Scotch. And I don’t want it to run to Switzerland. It would be simply brutal to send him to Switzerland.”
“Yes, we mustn’t be iconoclasts,” said Gypsy.
“Iconoclasts?” inquired Ginger.
“The antitheses of Cook and Lunn, darling. But salmon—”
“Antitheses?” interpolated Ginger.