Tim. Well, I to the woman.
Juan. Let us not exaggerate: being between the bottle and the woman one remains just the same—between the bottle and the woman.
Tim. Not quite: we now remain at home between our own woman and the bottle of tisan—two tisans.
Nem. Because you are a pair of dotards. I am every night at the theatre, in my little box: from ten to twelve I consecrate myself to art. Some dancers have come from Madrid. Sweet zephyrs! Four zephyrs!
Juan (in a loud voice and erecting himself like an old cock). Are they pretty?
Tim. Your wife will hear you.
Juan (lowering his voice in exaggerated style). Are they pretty?
Nem. Four flowers, four stars, four goddesses, the four cardinal points of beauty. What eyes! What waists! What vigour! What cushion-like bodies.
Juan. Cushion-like?
Nem. Nothing artificial.