At least, Ginger thought he said this; in Gypsy’s opinion, when they discussed it later, he said, “Five wives and a little ’un.” Either way they felt very sorry for him. Ginger dried his eyes with a beautiful orange-coloured handkerchief which was Gypsy’s chief wedding-present to her, and Gypsy gave him his seventeenth cocoanut. But the Man With the Rings only looked miserably at the penknife; and at last he offered Ginger free free frows if she’d give it back. But Ginger clutched it. She wanted so much to keep the penknife as a proof, and she knew that luck doesn’t go on forever. The Man with the Rings looked frightfully unhappy, so Gypsy, who could not bear a cloud on his first honeymoon, gave him half-a-crown for the penknife; and everybody was cheerful.
“It’s for you,” said Ginger when they came away. “It’s a wedding-present. I won it for you with the sweat of my own brow.”
“We shan’t have to sweat again for a long time now,” said Gypsy. “Sixteen cocoanuts will be lots to live on for a bit, especially now we’ve got a penknife to eat them with. It’s ripping, darling.”
Gypsy was wrong, however. The penknife wouldn’t rip margarine, much less sixteen cocoanuts. So when they got back to a little room they’d found standing quite empty and longing for them in Well Road, they had supper by the aid of the poker. Then, because they’d no pennies left for the gas-slot, and no lamp, and no candles, Ginger put a match to some shavings in the fireplace so that they could see whether they were taking bites of cocoanut or of cocoanut matting; and as the poker was otherwise engaged, she poked the fire with the penknife, which flared up like a squib and disappeared for ever. And Gypsy and Ginger, who both adored fireworks, said, “Oo—oo—oo!” and clapped their hands, and rolled themselves up on the floor and went to sleep.
Because, as I said before, the room was quite empty.
The day after the honeymoon, Gypsy and Ginger decided that it was time to settle down. The five days since they had first met had been as unsettled as unsettling, but now that they were used to married life and to one another—“we must make up our minds,” said Gypsy, “to being humdrum for the rest of our days. There’s no escape. We must Keep House.” “Why?” said Ginger. “Before you’re married,” said Gypsy, “House keeps You. Afterwards You keep House. It’s a sort of moral obligation for past favours received.” “Bother,” said Ginger, “is it?” “’Fraid so,” said Gypsy; “and before we keep house we must discuss Ways and Means.” “Isn’t there a Ministry for that?” asked Ginger. “We might go to the Minister and discuss it with him.” “There isn’t one yet,” said Gypsy, “there won’t be one till the Householders’ Strike nearly comes off.” “Then let’s nearly strike,” said Ginger. “But we aren’t nearly Householders yet,” objected Gypsy; “which brings us back to the discussion of Ways and Means.”
They discussed Ways and Means. “I’ve often thought,” said Ginger, pulling reflectively at her single scarlet hair, “that I might be a Designer.”
“What of? Of what? Let Vivien alone, darling, she might come out, and it would be a lot of trouble putting her back in the same hole. Transplanting hairs isn’t as simple as it sounds. And there’s no money in it either, or we might go in for that. Of what?”
“What of what?” asked Ginger.