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. “Do you mean ‘what of--what’ or ‘what--of what?’” asked Gypsy. “I don’t remember,” said Ginger. “Well, it doesn’t matter. Let’s go back to our first subject. What would you design?” “The dresses you see in Dry-Cleaners’ shop-windows,” said Ginger. “I often wonder who designs them, or how they think of them, or when they were in fashion. There’s the one in cherry-coloured plush, and the one with a bodice draped canary satin with a bright blue moiré sash and a deep lace flounce round the skirt; and there are the white ingenue ones, all specially designed for ingenues over thirty-five. But it must be an awfully difficult profession--I expect you have to be born with a natural gift for the wrong colours.” “Then you’d better chuck it and think of something else,” said Gypsy, looking at her hair which had been born with a natural gift for the right colours. “But while you’ve been talking I’ve decided on _my_ profession.” “What are you going to do?” “Invert gas-mantles.” “Why?” “Well, _some_body has to. All the best gas-mantles are inverted nowadays. And it sounds a simple, even an artless job; I’m sure it lies within my scope.” “What is a scope?” asked Ginger. “Don’t be silly,” said Gypsy. “You must know what a scope is. You’ve got one of your own.” “Sure?” said Ginger. “Everybody has.” “What for?” “For things to lie within, of course.” “Like a sea-chest? What sort of things--the things you so often see in the offing?” “Oh, not nearly as many or as varied as those,” said Gypsy. “They’re simply legion. The things within one’s scope are frequently quite limited. But if you take another peep into yours, you might find something else.” Ginger took another peep, and emerged triumphant. “Well?” said Gypsy. “I’ve found what I’m going to do. I’m going to trim coal.” “How?” “I shall have to find out. But coal _is_ trimmed--there’s been a lot about Coal-Trimmers in the papers lately, and I should _love_ it. There’s such a lot of effects to be done with black--you ask Mr. Heal. Think of little white frills, and scarlet ribbons, and bright green pom-poms--” “I never saw _my_ Mother’s coal come into the drawing-room looking like an African Beauty Chorus,” said Gypsy, getting jealous. “I don’t believe that’s how you trim coal at all. I believe what coal-trimmers do is to put all those little goldy bits in the lumps, and that must be _frightfully_ hard.”