Felix, you’re frightfully clever . . .
‘When love is consummated’
Tell me, Felix, poets are dreadfully, hideously, passionate, aren’t they?
Felix. Oh, Iris, I’ve grown out of what’s in that poem a long time.
Iris. If only that Latin word wasn’t so coarse. I can stand anything, anything, but it mustn’t have a horrid name. Felix, you must be tender and delicate with women. If I were to let you kiss me, you wouldn’t give me a horrid name, would you?
Felix. Iris, I wouldn’t dare to kiss you.
Iris. Be brave, little boy. Faint heart never won—Tell me, whom did you write that poem to? To Clytie?
Felix. No, no, no.
Iris. To whom, then?
Felix. To nobody, upon my honour, to nobody; or rather, to all the women in the world.
Iris. Good gracious ! All the women in theFelix, you’re a terrible rake. But you must let me know one thing—who ’s your (whispering) ladybird now?
Felix. You won’t tell any one—you really won’t?
Iris. No.
Felix. I haven’t got one.
Iris. What?
Felix. Not yet—I swear it. (Very simply.)
Iris. Oh what a naughty fib! How many women have you told the tale to? I see through you, Felix. You’re a dangerous man.
Felix. Iris, dear, don’t laugh at me. I’ve had awful experiences—in my imagination. Terrible
