The Turnip and the Foghorn

Lord Reginald, preening slightly at the dinner party, leaned across the polished mahogany table towards Lady Beatrice. "My dear Lady," he began, a condescending smirk playing on his lips, "your wit is, if you don't mind my saying, as elusive as a well-cooked turnip at *my* chef's table."

Lady Beatrice, without so much as a flicker of surprise, delicately dabbed her mouth with a linen napkin. "And I, Lord Reginald," she replied, her voice a calm ripple in the otherwise boisterous room, "find your humor to be as subtle as a foghorn in a library. One often wishes for the former to cease entirely, and the latter to be just… less."

A sudden, strained silence fell, broken only by a strangled gasp from the Countess of Whithers, who quickly turned it into a cough. Lord Reginald's monocle seemed to vibrate with indignation. He opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again, like a particularly bewildered carp.

Lady Beatrice merely took a slow, elegant sip of her claret. "Indeed," she added, her eyes twinkling mischievously, "I do believe silence is sometimes the wisest retort, wouldn't you agree, my lord? Though, of course, I wouldn't wish to deprive you of the opportunity to *try* and come up with one."

Lord Reginald, for once, found no words. The turnip, it seemed, had been perfectly cooked and served.