Felix. With whom?
Clytie. With that dowdy thing!
Felix. Whom do you mean?
Clytie. Iris, of course.
Felix. I? What can you be thinking of? That was over—long ago.
Clytie. I understand. Iris is so awfully ignorant—and such thick ankles. Oh, Felix, at your age we have so many illusions about women.
Felix. I haven’t, Clytie. I passed that stage when I was a boy.
Clytie. No, Felix, you don’t know women. Sit here beside me—no, closer. You’ve no idea what they’re like—their minds, their souls, their bodies. You’re so young.
Felix. Oh, if I were! I’ve had so much experience.
Clytie. You must be young—it’s the fashion. To be young, a butterfly, and a poet—Is there anything more beautiful in the world?