8
ACT I
THE BUTTERFLIES
A hill. Many flowers and bright-coloured cushions. In the C. a small table or bar, with high seats and coloured glasses containing cold drinks and straws.
Tramp. I say—I say! It ’s a bit of all right. What price the ’Eath now? Paradise—that ’s what it is, Paradise! And don’t it smell nice! Odi Colone, not ’alf.
Clytie runs in laughing, followed by Otto.
Otto. I love you, Clytie.[Exeunt.
Tramp. Butterflies! That ’s what they are. Butterflies, playin’. I’d like to stay ’ere and watch ’em if I wasn’t so—Never mind; they can kick me out if they like. I’ll lie down ’ere, comfortable.—’Pon my soul, I will. (He takes and arranges the cushions) (Sleepily) All right—that ’s what it is; all right.
Enter Felix—a poet butterfly.
Felix. (Ecstatically) Iris! Iris! Where are you, Iris? If only I could find a rhyme for you!
All I desire is
Beautiful Iris . . .
No, that ’s wretched, commonplace.
The star to whom my thoughts aspire is
Iris, radiant Iris.
That ’s no better. I know! She will reject my
