Let. No, madam; 'tis Mr. Novel, I'm sure, by his talking so loud: I know his voice too, madam.
Oliv. You know nothing, you buffle-headed stupid creature you: you would make my cousin believe I receive visits. But if it be Mr.—what did you call him?
Let. Mr. Novel, madam; he that—
Oliv. Hold your peace; I'll hear no more of him. But if it be your Mr.—(I cannot think of his name again) I suppose he has followed my cousin hither.
Eliza. No, cousin, I will not rob you of the honour of the visit: 'tis to you, cousin; for I know him not.
Oliv. Nor did I ever hear of him before, upon my honour, cousin; besides, han't I told you, that visits, and the business of visits, flattery and detraction, are my aversion? D'ye think then I would admit such a coxcomb as he is? who rather than not rail, will rail at the dead, whom none speak ill of; rather than not flatter, will flatter the poets of the age, whom none will flatter; who affects novelty as much as the fashion, and is as fantastical as changeable, and as well known as the fashion; who likes nothing but what is new, nay, would choose to have his friend or his title a new one. In fine, he is my aversion.
Eliza. I find you do know him, cousin; at least, have heard of him.
Oliv. Yes, now I remember. I have heard of him.
Eliza. Well; but since he is such a coxcomb, for Heaven's sake, let him not come up. Tell him, Mrs. Lettice, your lady is not within.