Oliv. I a maid of honour! To be a maid of honour, were yet of all things my aversion.
Eliza. In what sense am I to understand you? But in fine, by the word aversion, I'm sure you dissemble; for I never knew woman yet used it who did not. Come, our tongues belie our hearts more than our pocket-glasses do our faces. But methinks we ought to leave off dissembling, since 'tis grown of no use to us; for all wise observers understand us now-a-days, as they do dreams, almanacs, and Dutch gazettes, by the contrary: and a man no more believes a woman, when she says she has an aversion for him, than when she says she'll cry out.
Oliv. O filthy! hideous! Peace, cousin, or your discourse will be my aversion: and you may believe me.
Eliza. Yes; for if anything be a woman's aversion, 'tis plain dealing from another woman: and perhaps that's your quarrel to the world; for that will talk, as your woman says.
Oliv. Talk? not of me sure; for what men do I converse with? what visits do I admit?
Enter Boy.
Boy. Here's the gentleman to wait upon you, madam.
Oliv. On me! you little unthinking fop; d'ye know what you say?
Boy. Yes, madam, 'tis the gentleman that comes every day to you, who—
Oliv. Hold your peace, you heedless little animal, and get you gone.—[Exit Boy.] This country boy, cousin, takes my dancing-master, tailor, or the spruce milliner, for visitors.