How the hell did she manage it? How did she pull it off, being so... positive all the time? Momus had known Eupheme for years - centuries - and yet every time they met he found himself wondering this anew. Some day, he'd thought, she would just crack. She'd have to, anybody would have to give sooner or later under the pressure of all that relentless optimism. Another depression would rear its head, another world war would roll around and privately he'd think (anxiously? fearfully?) this time. He'd not been right yet (thank gods). Perhaps Praise was made of harder stuff than he gave her credit for. (Perhaps she was just dimmer than he'd guessed.)
Oh, hell. He always had been prone to sentimentality at this time of year (she knew it, of course; curse her). "Huh," he grunted, relenting just a little and tilting his glass towards her in a minute toast. "Sure. Merry fucking Christmas." He drained the remainder of the champagne, set down the empty glass and picked up the full one Eupheme had brought with her. "Thanks for the refill, by the way." (Belatedly; he'd barely noticed it at first. How did she always manage to catch him off guard?)
"So, counselling." He wasn't surprised; it was right up Eupheme's alley. "You know, I've always found a good kick up the ass makes for an effective motivator." (Glib. Immature of him, maybe. He never could resist an opportunity to try and get a rise out of her.)