Victor: "My dear Amelia, you’re as elegantly subtle as a brass band in a library." 

Amelia: "Oh, Victor, coming from you, that's almost a compliment. I expected nothing less from the sort of person whose wit is only rivalled by his penchant for outdated neckties." 

Victor: "Touché. However, it does seem you’ve taken your morning tea so seriously that even your eyebrows are on guard. Tell me, do you apply them with as much precision as you do your cutting remarks?" 

Amelia: "I do, indeed, and with far more care than you manage with your attempts at humour. I suspect your charm lodged somewhere beneath one of those relics of fashion you call a tie." 

Victor: "A relic, perhaps, but at least it’s vintage. And let’s be honest—if sarcasm were measured in decibels, you’d be a one-woman orchestra." 

Amelia: "In that case, I must thank you for the compliment, for your company is the only noise that makes my concert worthwhile." 

Victor: "Well, then, let’s call this our final act of the day. I’m off to polish my tie and contemplate writing a sonnet about your astonishing ability to turn a compliment into an insult." 

Amelia (with a playful smirk): "Do let me know if you require a hand, or perhaps a second pair of eyes—though I fear your style might blind even the most discerning critic." 

Victor (laughing as he departs): "Ah, Amelia, the day may end, but your sharp tongue always leaves me with a chuckle. Next time, let’s meet for tea—I promise my tie won’t steal the show." 

With that, the absurd ballet of banter concluded on a note of amusement, proving that even the cleverest of insults could waltz gracefully into laughter.