WIT. No, no; what if he be? ’Tis no matter for that, his wit will excuse that. A wit should no more be sincere than a woman constant: one argues a decay of parts, as t’other of beauty. MIRA. Maybe you think him too positive? WIT. No, no; his being positive is an incentive to argument, and keeps up conversation. FAIN. Too illiterate? WIT. That? That’s his happiness. His want of learning gives him the more opportunities to show his natural parts. MIRA. He wants words? WIT. Ay; but I like him for that now: for his want of words gives me the pleasure very often to explain his meaning. FAIN. He’s impudent? WIT. No that’s not it. MIRA. Vain? WIT. No. MIRA. What, he speaks unseasonable truths sometimes, because he has not wit enough to invent an evasion? WIT. Truths? Ha, ha, ha! No, no, since you will have it, I mean he never speaks truth at all, that’s all. He will lie like a chambermaid, or a woman of quality’s porter. Now that is a fault. SCENE VII. [_To them_] COACHMAN. COACH. Is Master Petulant here, mistress? BET. Yes. COACH. Three gentlewomen in a coach would speak with him. FAIN. O brave Petulant! Three! BET. I’ll tell him. COACH. You must bring two dishes of chocolate and a glass of cinnamon water. SCENE VIII. MIRABELL, FAINALL, WITWOUD. WIT. That should be for two fasting strumpets, and a bawd troubled with wind. Now you may know what the three are. MIRA. You are very free with your friend’s acquaintance. WIT. Ay, ay; friendship without freedom is as dull as love without enjoyment or wine without toasting: but to tell you a secret, these are trulls whom he allows coach-hire, and something more by the week, to call on him once a day at public places. MIRA. How! WIT. You shall see he won’t go to ’em because there’s no more company here to take notice of him. Why, this is nothing to what he used to do:—before he found out this way, I have known him call for himself— FAIN. Call for himself? What dost thou mean? WIT. Mean? Why he would slip you out of this chocolate-house, just when you had been talking to him. As soon as your back was turned—whip he was gone; then trip to his lodging, clap on a hood and scarf and a mask, slap into a hackney-coach, and drive hither to the door again in a trice; where he would send in for himself; that I mean, call for himself, wait for himself, nay, and what’s more, not finding himself, sometimes leave a letter for himself. MIRA. I confess this is something extraordinary. I believe he waits for himself now, he is so long a coming; oh, I ask his pardon. SCENE IX. PETULANT, MIRABELL, FAINALL, WITWOUD, BETTY. BET. Sir, the coach stays.