Eliza. No, you hate flattery and detraction.
Oliv. But, Mr. Novel, who had you besides at dinner?
Nov. Nay, the devil take me if I tell you, unless you will allow me the privilege of railing in my turn.—But, now I think on't, the women ought to be your province, as the men are mine: and you must know we had him whom—
Oliv. Him, whom—
Nov. What, invading me already? and giving the character before you know the man?
Eliza. No, that is not fair, though it be usual.
Oliv. I beg your pardon, Mr. Novel; pray go on.
Nov. Then, I say, we had that familiar coxcomb who is at home wheresoe'er he comes.
Oliv. Ay, that fool—
Nov. Nay then, madam, your servant; I'm gone. Taking the fool out of one's mouth is worse than taking the bread out of one's mouth.