I was impressing Miss Diggity-Dalgety,—I could see that clearly; but Francesca spoiled the effect by inquiring, maliciously, if we could sometimes have a howtowdy wi’ drappit eggs, or her favourite dish, wee grumphie wi’ neeps.
Here Salemina was obliged to poke the fire in order to conceal her smiles, and the cook probably suspected that Francesca found howtowdy in the Scotch glossary; but we amused each other vastly, and that is our principal object in life.
Miss Diggity-Dalgety’s forebears must have been exposed to foreign influences, for she interlards her culinary conversation with French terms, and we have discovered that this is quite common. A ‘jigget’ of mutton is of course a gigot, and we have identified an ‘ashet’ as an assiette. The ‘petticoat tails’ she requested me to buy at the confectioner’s were somewhat more puzzling, but when they were finally purchased by Susanna Crum they appeared to be ordinary little cakes; perhaps, therefore, petits gastels, since gastel is an old form of gateau, as was bel for beau. Susanna, on her part, speaks of the wardrobe in my bedroom as an ‘awmry.’ It certainly contains no weapons, so cannot be an armoury, and we conjecture that her word must be a corruption of armoire.
“That was a remarkable touch about the black-faced chop,” laughed Salemina, when Miss Diggity-Dalgety had retired; “not that I believe they ever say it.”
“I am sure they must,” I asserted stoutly, “for I passed a flesher’s on my way home, and saw a sign with ‘Prime Black-Faced Mutton’ printed on it. I also saw ‘Fed Veal,’ but I forgot to ask the cook for it.”
“We ought really to have kept house in Edinburgh,” observed Francesca, looking up from the Scotsman. “One can get a ‘self-contained residential flat’ for twenty pounds a month. We are such an enthusiastic trio that a self-contained flat would be everything to us; and if it were not fully furnished, here is a firm that wishes to sell a ‘composite bed’ for six pounds, and a ‘gent’s stuffed easy’ for five. Added to these inducements there is somebody who advertises that parties who intend ‘displenishing’ at the Whit Term would do well to consult him, as he makes a specialty of second-handed furniture and ‘cyclealities.’ What are ‘cyclealities,’ Susanna?” (She had just come in with coals.)
“I cudna say, mam.”
“Thank you; no, you need not ask Mrs. M’Collop; it is of no consequence.”
Susanna Crum is a most estimable young woman, clean, respectful, willing, capable, and methodical, but as a Bureau of Information she is painfully inadequate. Barring this single limitation she seems to be a treasure-house of all good practical qualities; and being thus clad and panoplied in virtue, why should she be so timid and self-distrustful?
She wears an expression which can mean only one of two things: either she has heard of the national tomahawk and is afraid of violence on our part, or else her mother was frightened before she was born. This applies in general to her walk and voice and manner, but is it fear that prompts her eternal ‘I cudna say,’ or is it perchance Scotch caution and prudence? Is she afraid of projecting her personality too indecently far? Is it the indirect effect of heresy trials on her imagination? Does she remember the thumbscrew of former generations? At all events, she will neither affirm nor deny, and I am putting her to all sorts of tests, hoping to discover finally whether she is an accident, an exaggeration, or a type.