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.
Iris. Then why do you say you are tired of women?
Felix. Oh, Iris, every one disparages the thing that he loves best.
Iris. Do you mean dark women? You love Clytie—the cat.
Felix. No—dreams, eternal dreams.
Iris. You have such passionate eyes, Felix. You’re awfully clever. What are you thinking about now?
Felix. About you. Woman is a riddle.
Iris. Guess it then. But not too roughly, please.
Felix. I cannot see into the depths of your eyes.
Iris. (Crossly) Oh, then look somewhere else.
Felix. Iris, I—
Iris. I’m in a queer mood to-day. How stupid it is to be a woman. I should like to be a man,—to kiss, to tempt, to overcome. Oh, Felix, I should make such a fearfully passionate man. I should—I should seize everything I wanted, brutally, savagely. What a pity you aren’t a girl. Let ’s pretend, shall we? You be Iris, and I’ll be your Felix.
Felix. No, Iris—it ’s too dangerous to be Felix. I couldn’t let you. It means desiring something, desiring something—
Iris. (In a whisper) Oh, Felix, not something—everything!
Felix. There is something greater than desiring everything.
