“We will begin,” said Gypsy, “by building a little house, the size of Wendy and Peter’s, in a crowded thoroughfare. The house will have only one room, but two doors, both looking the same way. One door is yours and one is mine. When the weather is fine you will come out of your door while I stay inside and cook the sausages, and when it’s bad I will come out of my door while you go in and make the tea. And all the people will give us pennies for telling them what the weather is. That’s all.” “Oh Gypsy!” exclaimed Ginger. She had always loved him, and often admired him; but now she almost respected him. “We’d work on the swing system, you see,” said Gypsy. “I think there’d be a pivot in the middle of the floor and a little plank on it, with me on one end and you on the other.” “We shouldn’t often meet,” said Ginger pensively. “But think how jolly it would be to wave to each other,” said Gypsy. “I’d wave my orange handkerchief,” said Ginger. “I’d wave a blue one,” said Gypsy. “And I’d have a little blue top hat and coat, and bottle-green waistcoat and trousers, all varnished.” “I’d have a round red bodice, very tight,” said Ginger, “and a little round yellow sailor hat, and I’d be varnished too. I’m afraid your varnish will wear off in the rain.” “Well, you’ll fade a bit in the sun yourself,” said Gypsy. “I’m sorry you’re to have all the bad weather,” said Ginger. “It’s the man’s part, darling. And I shall have a purple umbrella stuck tight to my side.” “I shall have a pink parasol,” said Ginger, “that never opens. I shall be very busy in June and July, but then I love an open-air life in summer. You’ll spend all August cooking sausages.” “And you’ll be making tea most of January and February,” said Gypsy. “Home won’t see much of me at that time of year. But I shall hear you singing about the little house, and the kettle doing second, and I shall know it’s worth it.” “What will happen in April?” “Life will be a bit jerky in April,” said Gypsy. “There’ll be any amount of popping in and out, and I shall have to turn the sausages between the showers.” “And what about when the weather’s not quite one thing and not quite another, and the barometer keeps on changing its mind about going up and down?” “Then we’ll have to do a sort of Hesitation Waltz at our respective doors, and the tea and sausages must be suspended till May. Come on, darling, let’s go and do it.”