I have never dared even inquire why our best man began calling my
husband the Angel. He was with us a great deal during the first
months of our marriage, and he is very observing, so I decided to
let sleeping dogs lie. I, too, am observing. It is only fair to
state, in justice to the best man, that I am a woman of emotional
mountain peaks and dark, deep valleys, while the Angel is one vast
and sunny plateau. With him rain comes in soothing showers, while
rain in my disposition means a soaking, drenching torrent which
sweeps away cattle and cottages and leaves roaring rivers in its
wake. But it took Mary to discover that the smiling plateau was
bedded on solid rock, and had its root in infinity. Mary is my cook
Yet Mary is more than cook. She is my housekeeper, mother, trained
nurse, corporation counsel, keeper of the privy purse, chancellor
of the exchequer, fighter of exorbitant bills, seamstress, linen
woman, doctor of small ills, the acme of perpetual good nature, and
my best friend.
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