Felix. Don’t, Iris. It’s such a bad poem.
Iris. Why, bad?
Felix. There’s no real passion in it.
Iris. Victor, you will find my fan in the garden.
Victor. Oh, don’t let me disturb you.
[Exit.
Iris. Quick, Felix—tell me the truth. You can tell me everything.
Felix. Iris, Iris—how can you bear him? That fop, that silk-hatted satyr!
Iris. Victor?
Felix. How foully he thinks of love, of you, of everything.