Iris. You’re terribly clever, Otto.
Otto. Lovely star!
Iris. Where? What do you mean?
Otto. That ’s the beginning of a poem.
Clytie. (Yawning) Oh, do stop talking this literary stuff. I’m fed up with it.
Victor. (Aside to Iris) Not so much as I’m fed up with her!
Iris. Are you? Are you really, Victor? I feel like kissing you. Catch me—catch me if you can.
[She runs off, and Victor after her.
Clytie. What a fright! What a figure!—Felix!
Felix. Yes?
Clytie. How ever could you fall in love with her?
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.
