"It's the fortune-teller," said Katie in my ear. But Aubrey heard.
"Get up, Mary!" he said, sternly. (I did not know the Angel could be so stern.)
To the surprise of all of us, Mary obediently scrambled to her feet.
"Now go to your room, and go properly to bed. Katie will help you.
Then I shall telephone for the doctor."
Mary began to look frightened.
"Don't send for the doctor, Boss dear," she pleaded. "I'll be better soon. These attacks don't mean anything."
"The gipsy predicted that you were going to have a fit of sickness, and I believe it has come," said Aubrey, seriously. "Take her to bed quickly, Katie. I don't want her to die in the kitchen."
The two old women stumbled up the back stairway together.
"Oh, Aubrey, what is it?" I whispered.
"It is the breaking up of Mary," said the Angel when we were alone. "It has been going on for some time. Either jealousy, or old age, or imagination, or incipient insanity has seized our poor old servant-friend, and well-nigh wrecked her. I have tried various remedies, but all have failed. I didn't want to bother you with it before, but the fact is, Faith dear, Mary must go. She has outlived her usefulness with us."