SCENE II.--_Small Butterman's shop in a poor neighbourhood.
Burly white-apron'd Proprietor behind counter. To him enter a
pasty-faced Workman, with a greasy pat of something wrapped in
a leaf from a ledger._

_Workman._ I say, Guv'nor, lookye here. This 'ere stuff as you sold my
old woman, is simply beastly. I don't believe it's butter at all.

_Butterman_ (_sneeringly_). And who said it _was_? What did your
Missus buy it as?

_Workman_. Why, Adipo--whot's it, I believe. But that's only another
name for butter of a cheaper sort, ain't it? Anyhow, it's no reason
why it should be nasty.

_Butterman_ (_loftily_). Now look here, my man, what do you expect?
That's Adipocerene, that is, and _sold as such_. If you'll pay for
Butter, you can have it; but if you ask for this here stuff, you must
take yer chance.

_Workman_. But what's it made on?

_Butterman_. That's no business of mine. If you could anerlyse
it--(mind, I don't say yer _could_)--into stale suet and
sewer-scrapings, you couldn't prove as it warn't Adipocerene, same as
it's sold for, could yer?

_Workman_ (_hotly_). But hang it, I don't _want_ stale suet and
sewer-scrapings, whatsomever you may call it.