Arthur snorts too, because there's nothing quite like -- to his ears, at least -- damning with faint praise.

His lip draws up, a grimace rather than a smile, and his fingers are once again tapping out an unconscious rhythm on the couch. He could come clean about what he did to Smith in his paranoia. Or about the reason the word irresponsible turns to ashes in his mouth. Too many thoughts indeed, and what good were any of them when he--

He stops that thought, and takes a breath, and says firmly, around the obstruction in his throat: "Anyway. I think we've strayed from the point, a bit."