passion and I shall then produce an exquisite lament. For instance,—
If only thou wert ill, hard-hearted Iris!
Then I could melt thee with my kind inquiries . . .[Laughter behind.
Iris enters, followed by Victor.
Iris. All alone, Felix? And so picturesquely mournful?
Felix. You, Iris? I didn’t think—
Iris. Why aren’t you over there? So many pretty little flappers—
Felix. You know very well, Iris—they don’t interest me.
Iris. Poor little fellow—why not?
Victor (a lady-killer). You mean, they don’t interest you yet!
Felix. They interest me no longer.
Iris. Do you hear that, Victor? That ’s a nice thing to say to my face. Come here, you rude little man. Sit down close to me . . . No, close. You don’t call that close, do you? Tell me, my precious, don’t women really interest you any longer?
Felix. No–I’m weary of them.
Iris. (With a sigh) Oh, you men—you’re such cynics. You have your fun—as much fun as you can get—and then you say (imitating) ‘I’m weary of them’. It ’s a terrible thing to be a woman.
Victor. Why?
Iris. We never grow tired of love. Have you had a terrible past, Felix? When did you first fall in love?
