I relapsed into a baffled silence. But it is never any good repining on these occasions. When I next spoke, I doubt if Catsmeat spotted the suspicion of a tremor in the voice. We Woosters are like that. In moments of mental anguish we resemble those Red Indians who, while getting cooked a crisp at the stake, never failed to be the life and soul of the party.
(from The Mating Season, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)