Iris. Is there? What is it?
Felix. Desiring the impossible.
Iris. (Coldly and crossly) Oh, of course, you’re perfectly right. You’re always right—so right. What can be keeping Victor so long? Would you mind calling him?
Felix. Iris, I haven’t offended you? I haven’t said too much?
Iris. No—I shouldn’t call it too much!
Felix. To desire the unattainable. Iris, I was mad to talk to you like that.
Iris. Or at least impolite. Really, you know, you’re rather crude, my little man. When you’re in the company of ladies, you shouldn’t behave as if you were longing for something that isn’t there.
Felix. The unattainable is there.
Iris. (Looking round from her mirror) Where?
Felix. Your image, Iris.
Iris. My image? Have you fallen in love with my image? Look, my image has heard you. Kiss it quickly.
Felix. It is as unapproachable as you.
Iris. Am I unapproachable? How do you know?
Felix. If I didn’t know that, I shouldn’t love you.
Iris. But must one always be unapproachable?
Felix. There is no true love except in the unapproachable.
Iris. Do you think so? What about
‘shall surely lie
When love is’—
you know!
Felix. Don’t, Iris—not again.
Iris. Make a poem for me, quickly. Something passionate.
