Felix. I don’t know. I forget. It was so long ago. I was a schoolboy.
Victor. Ah, you were still a caterpillar. Gobbling up all the leaves.
Iris. A little kitty kitty kitty caterpillar. Was she dark and beautiful?
Felix. As beautiful—
Iris. As what?
Felix. As beautiful as you.
Iris. And did she love you?
Felix. I don’t know. I never spoke to her.
Iris. Good heavens! What did you do to her then?
Felix. I looked at her from afar.
Victor. Sitting on a green leaf?
Felix. And wrote poems, letters—my first novel.
Victor. It ’s appalling the number of leaves a caterpillar uses up.
Iris. Don’t be nasty, Victor. Look, his eyes are full of tears.
Victor. Tears? Poor little cry-baby.
Felix. They’re not, they’re not Iris. Let me see—look into my eyes quickly.
Victor. One, two, three, four—Ah! I knew he couldn’t hold out any longer.
Iris. What ’s the colour of my eyes, Felix dear?
Felix. Blue—like heaven.
Iris. Yours are brown—golden-brown. I don’t care for blue eyes, they’re so cold. Poor Clytie has green eyes, hasn’t she? Do you like Clytie’s eyes, Felix?
Felix. Clytie’s? I don’t know. Yes—she has beautiful eyes.
Iris. Oh, but her legs are dreadfully thick! You’re such bad judges of women, you poets.
