Troico. Very well, I have smelt of it.
Leno. What does it smell of?
Troico. Something like butter.
Leno. Then you may truly say, “Here Troy was.”
Troico. What do you mean, Leno?
Leno. For you it was given to me; for you Madam Timbria sent it, all stuck over with nuts;—but as I have (and Heaven and every body else knows it) a sort of natural relationship to whatever is good, my eyes watched and followed it just as a hawk follows chickens.
Troico. Followed whom, villain? Timbria?
Leno. Heaven forbid! But how nicely she sent it, all made up with butter and sugar!
Troico. And what was that?
Leno. The pancake, to be sure,—don’t you understand?