Mary took down her apron in triumph, and looked as important as though she had a funeral to go to.
"Didn't you know, Missis? In my mother's last sickness—God rest her soul!—I had to lift her every day, and I burst me stomach. The doctor said so. That's why I forget things!"
I stood staring at her. She was nodding her head, and smoothing her apron over her knees with a look of the greatest complacency.
I thought of many, many things to say. And in several languages. But all of them put together would have been inadequate, so, without one word, I turned and walked slowly and thoughtfully away.
That did not phase Mary in the least. She had looked for voluble and valuable sympathy—such as generally pours from me on the slightest provocation. She was so disappointed that she grew ugly and broke a soap-dish.
"Aubrey," I said to the Angel, "how is your memory connected with your stomach?"
"Very nearly," he answered, pleasantly. "My stomach reminds me of many things,—when it's time to eat, and when it's time to drink."
"So then, if anything happened to that reminder, you might forget even to get dinner if you were a cook, or to serve it if you were a butler?"
"Certainly."
"I see," I answered, thoughtfully.