VIOLETTA (pleadingly). Don't you think it might just happen that they turned out all right? (Whispering) Take them out of the oven. Let's look.
KNAVE. That's what I intended to do before you came in. It's possible that a miracle has occurred.
(He tries the door of the oven.)
VIOLETTA. Look out; it's hot. Here, take my handkerchief.
KNAVE. The gods forbid, My Lady.
(He takes his hat, and, folding it, opens the door and brings out the pan, which he puts on the table softly.)
VIOLETTA (with a look of horror) How queer! They've melted or something. See, they are quite soft and runny. Do you think that they will be good for anything, Knave?
KNAVE. For paste, My Lady, perhaps.
VIOLETTA. Oh, dear. Isn't it dreadful!
KNAVE. It is.