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 the——Felix, 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 disappointments. Love-affairs without number—but only in my dreams. Dreams are the poet’s life. I know all women, and I’ve not known one—I swear it, Iris.