Iris. Poor Victor—he’s so soothing. No, Felix, talk about poetry. I’m fond of poetry....
‘Were false when first created’
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.