Felix. As beautiful as you.
Iris. And did she love you?
Felix. I don’t know. I never spoke to her.
Iris. Good heavens! What did you do to her then?
Felix. I looked at her from afar.
Victor. Sitting on a green leaf?
Felix. And wrote poems, letters—my first novel.
Victor. It’s appalling the number of leaves a caterpillar uses up.
Iris. Don’t be nasty, Victor. Look, his eyes are full of tears.
Victor. Tears? Poor little cry-baby.