When Gypsy and Ginger got married--Oh, but before that I ought to say that those were not their names.Hers was the name of the most beautiful of women, and his the name of the most victorious of men. But they were not a bit like that really. Parents make these mistakes, and the false prophecies they invent for their infants at the font continue to be their delusions through life.But nobody else's. As they grow up the children find their level, and are called according to their deserts. And so Gypsy was called Gypsy because his hair wasn't really quite as black as a gypsy's; and Ginger was called Ginger because her hair was the sort of hair that those who adore it love to insult. It was anything but ginger; or rather, it was everything besides. Such as mace, and cinnamon, and nutmeg, and cayenne, and ochre, and burnt sienna, and vandyke brown and a touch of chrome no. 3; and one hair, named Vivien, was pure vermilion. It was a ridiculous mixture really, and resembled the palette of an artist trying to paint beechwoods in Autumn. No, it didn't; it resembled the beechwoods. In thinking of Ginger's hair you must begin again, and washout all the above colours, which are not really colours, but paints.Ginger's hair, like all the colours of earth and sky, was made of fire and light. That is why colours can never be painted. I'm sorry to have gone on so long about Ginger's hair, but I couldn't help it; yet I should have been able to, for the hair itself was short. When she combed it over her head and face it hung as low as her upper lip, and so on all the way round, very smooth on the top, very thick at the bottom, and doing a lovely serpentine in and out just below the level of her eyebrows. When it got to her lip it did another one in, and never came out again. .

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