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Updated: June 7, 2025
What? 'Why, Dick Smales says he can't get the money for his boy, as died last week. 'Can't get it? Why not? 'That's just what I want to know. Some o' the chaps is talkin' about it upstairs. M'Cosh ain't been seen for four or five days. Somebody had news as he was ill in bed, and now there's no findin' him. I've got a notion there's something wrong, my boy.
M'Cosh could devise, the linen and the glass and silver shone, the flowers were charmingly arranged Jean wore her gay mandarin's coat, and the guests when they arrived found themselves in such a warm and welcoming atmosphere that they at once threw off all stiffness and prepared to enjoy the evening. The entertainment was to begin at eight, and Mrs.
M'Cosh said, "Awa wi' ye, laddie," and "Sic havers," but after much urging owned that she knew a song which had been a favourite with her Andra. It was sung to the tune of "When the kye come hame," and was obviously a parody on that lyric, beginning: "Come a' ye Hieland pollismen That whustle through the street, An' A'll tell ye a' aboot a man That's got triple expansion feet.
One of the guests sang a drawing-room ballad in which the words "dear heart" seemed to occur with astonishing frequency. Then the entertainment took a distinctly lower turn. David and Jock sang a song composed by themselves and set to a hymn tune, a somewhat ribald production. Mhor then volunteered the information that Mrs. M'Cosh could sing a song. Mrs.
She could nowise reconcile this with her moral sense. And, indeed, unless these butterflies are created with a side-look to the composition of improving apologues, it is not altogether easy, even for people who have read Hegel and Dr. M'Cosh, to decide intelligibly upon the issue raised.
Jean nodded. "Mrs. M'Cosh often says, 'There's mony a lang gant in a cairriage, and I dare say it's true. I don't want to be ungrateful, Pamela. I think it's about the worst sin one can commit ingratitude. And I don't want to be stuffy, either, but I think I was meant for small ways." "Poor Penny-plain! Never mind. I'm not going to preach any more. You shall do just as you please with your life.
The 'tedious brief' scene was drawing to an end, when the door opened and Mrs. M'Cosh, with a scared look in her eyes and an excited squeak in her voice, announced, "Lord Bidborough." A slim, dark young man stood in the doorway, regarding the dishevelled room.
Jean laughed as the door shut on their retainer, and perched herself on the end of the big old-fashioned sofa drawn up at one side of the fire. She wore a loose stockinette brown dress and looked rather like a wood elf of sorts with her golden-brown hair and eyes. "If I were rich," she said, "I would buy an annuity for Mrs. M'Cosh of at least £200 a year.
So Jock obediently crumpled his legs until his chin rested on his knees. Mrs. M'Cosh piled the tea-things on a tray and folded the cloth. "Ay, Peter," she said, catching sight of that notorious character, "ye look real good, but I wis hearin' ye were efter the sheep again the day." Peter turned away his head as if deeply shocked at the accusation, and Mrs.
She could nowise reconcile this with her moral sense. And, indeed, unless these butterflies are created with a side-look to the composition of improving apologues, it is not altogether easy, even for people who have read Hegel and Dr. M'Cosh, to decide intelligibly upon the issue raised.
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