Clytie. Wait—Otto ’s going to laugh again.
Iris. Felix is awfully clever. None of you could find a rhyme for ‘Iris’.
Clytie. Oh, couldn’t we!
Sometimes Iris,
A wicked liar is.
Felix. Oh, stop it, stop it!
Otto. Ha, ha! That ’s splendid. Iris, liar is.
Iris. Darling, you have such strange ideas about poetry. But you’ll never guess what a beautiful rhyme Felix made to my name. Guess.
Victor. Give it up.
Clytie. You must tell us.
Iris. (Triumphantly) ‘Fire is’!
Victor. What?
Iris. ‘I shall have flown where the fire is!’
Otto. Ha, ha, ha! ‘Fire is’,—that ’s jolly clever.
Iris. Oh, you’re horrid. You’ve no sense of art or poetry, or anything. I’ve no patience with you.
Victor. The rhymes of our little friend Felix
Are sweet as the honey a bee licks.
Iris. Splendid, Victor. You’re frightfully witty.
Clytie. Heavens, Victor ’s managed to produce a rhyme.
Otto. ‘Felix—bee licks’—that ’s good, damn good.
Victor. Poetry—what is it but lying and fooling?
Iris. Oh no, it stirs the feelings. I’m fearfully fond of it.
Otto. Ha! Blotto!
Clytie. Who ’s blotto?
Otto. Rhymes with Otto. Good—eh, what?
B
