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Updated: May 3, 2025
Life at Mrs. M'Collop's apartments in 22 Breadalbane Terrace is about as simple, comfortable, dignified, and delightful as it well can be. Mrs. M'Collop herself is neat, thrifty, precise, tolerably genial, and 'verra releegious. Her partner, who is also the cook, is a person introduced to us as Miss Diggity.
The relationship was an interesting fact, though we scarcely thought the information worth the additional pennies we paid for it in the telegram; however, Mrs. M'Collop's comfortable assurance, together with the quality of the rhubarb tart and mutton-chops, brought us to a decision.
Mingess of Kinyuchar. There is not a man in the house; even the Boots is a girl, so that 22 Breadalbane Terrace is as truly a castra puellarum as was ever the Castle of Edinburgh with its maiden princesses in the olden time. We talked with Miss Diggity-Dalgety on the evening of our first day at Mrs. M'Collop's, when she came up to know our commands.
I said so when first I saw her, and weeks of intimate acquaintance only deepened my reverence for the parental genius that had so described her to the world. When we awoke next morning the sun had forgotten itself and was shining in at Mrs. M'Collop's back windows.
She was living with an 'extremely nice family' in Glasgow, and only broke her engagement in order to try Fifeshire air for the summer; so she will remain with us as long as she is benefited by the climate." "Can't you pay her for a month and send her away?" "How can we? She is Mrs. M'Collop's sister's husband's niece, and we intend returning to Mrs. M'Collop.
M'Collop's carpet quite threadbare in front of the long mirror, and had curtsied to myself so many times in its crystal surface that I had developed a sort of fictitious reverence for my reflected image. I had only begun my well-practised obeisance when Her Grace the Marchioness, to my mingled surprise and embarrassment, extended a gracious hand and murmured my name in a particularly kind voice.
"Nobody need tell me that she is Mrs. M'Collop's sister's husband's niece," she whispered, "although she may possibly be somebody's grand-aunt. Doesn't she remind you of Mrs. Gummidge?" Salemina returned in a quarter of an hour, and sank dejectedly on the sofa. "Run over to the inn, Francesca" she said, "and order bacon and eggs at eight-thirty to-morrow morning.
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