_Nov._ Then, we had her daughter-- _Oliv._ Ay, her daughter; the very disgrace to good clothes, which she always wears but to heighten her deformity, not mend it: for she is still most splendidly, gallantly ugly, and looks like an ill piece of daubing in a rich frame. _Nov._ So! But have you done with her, madam? and can you spare her to me a little now? _Oliv._ Ay, ay, sir. _Nov._ Then, she is like-- _Oliv._ She is, you'd say, like a city bride; the greater fortune, but not the greater beauty, for her dress. _Nov._ Well: yet have you done, madam? Then she-- _Oliv._ Then she bestows as unfortunately on her face all the graces in fashion, as the languishing eye, the hanging or pouting lip. But as the fool is never more provoking than when he aims at wit, the ill-favoured of our sex are never more nauseous than when they would be beauties, adding to their natural deformity the artificial ugliness of affectation. _Eliza._ So, cousin, I find one may have a collection of all one's acquaintance's pictures as well at your house as at Mr. Lely's.[101] Only the difference is, there we find 'em much handsomer than they are, and like; here much uglier, and like: and you are the first of the profession of picture-drawing I ever knew without flattery. _Oliv._ I draw after the life; do nobody wrong, cousin. _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. _Oliv._ I've done; your pardon, Mr. Novel: pray proceed. _Nov._ I say, the rogue, that he may be the only wit in company, will let nobody else talk, and-- _Oliv._ Ay, those fops who love to talk all themselves are of all things my aversion. _Nov._ Then you'll let me speak, madam, sure. The rogue, I say, will force his jest upon you; and I hate a jest that's forced upon a man, as much as a glass. _Eliza._ Why, I hope, sir, he does not expect a man of your temperance in jesting should do him reason? _Nov._ What! interruption from this side too? I must then--[_Offers to rise._ OLIVIA _holds him._ _Oliv._ No, sir.--You must know, cousin, that fop he means, though he talks only to be commended, will not give you leave to do't. _Nov._ But, madam--