“I thought the wedding was not to take place till June.”
“It isn't the wedding,” said I.
“Then break the engagement.”
“It's beyond human power,” said I.
She held up her bracelet, from which dangled some charms.
“I think you're a ——” And she pointed to a little golden pig.
“I'm not,” I retorted.
“What are you, then?”
“I'm a gentleman in a Greek tragedy.”
We laughed and parted, and I went on my way cheered by the encounter. I had spoken the exact truth, and found amusement in doing so. One has often extracted humour from the contemplation of the dissolution of others—that of the giant in “Jack the Giant-killer” for instance, and the demise of the little boy with the pair of skates in the poem. Why not extract it from the contemplation of one's own?