The Uninvited Wit

The Honourable Lady Clarissa Penhaligon, renowned for her wit as much as her formidable hat collection, surveyed the new arrivals at the annual Summer Fête. Her gaze snagged on a certain Mr. Percival Piffle, a man of indeterminate origin but undeniable self-possession, who was admiring the petunias.

"Mr. Piffle," Lady Clarissa purred, sidling up to him. "Such an unusual name. Does it, by any chance, derive from a particularly noisy ancestor?"

Mr. Piffle, without turning, plucked a stray leaf. "Only in the way 'Penhaligon' derives from an ancestral penchant for penning long, tedious letters, my lady."

Clarissa’s perfectly arched brow twitched. "Indeed. Well, I must say, your suit, while certainly... *present*, suggests a certain unfamiliarity with bespoke tailoring. Does your tailor perhaps work exclusively in upholstery?"

Piffle finally turned, a faint, amused smile playing on his lips. "My tailor, Lady Clarissa, believes in practical elegance. He once remarked that some people spend so much on their clothes, they have nothing left to put in their pockets. A philosophy, I gather, you've taken rather literally with your rather extensive lapidary collection." He gestured vaguely at her pearl necklace.

Clarissa, momentarily flummoxed, drew herself up. "I find such remarks rather... *common*, Mr. Piffle."

"And I, Lady Clarissa," Piffle countered, stepping closer, "find 'common' to be a rather common complaint from those whose wit is anything but. One might even say it's rather a *threadbare* excuse for a retort."

He gave a slight bow, leaving Lady Clarissa to contemplate her suddenly rather less magnificent hat, and the distinct possibility that she had just been out-piffled.