"BLUEBLOOD!"
You have heard, perhaps, of the Traditional Canterlot Voice? It is a sort of well-mannered bellow, probably developed as a polite way of claiming the last baked yam at the royal dinner table. "STAY THY HOOF, YOU FOAL! THE ULTIMATE SWEET POTATO MUST BE MINE!" That sort of thing.
I believe Valencia considers it her "indoor voice." What she offered now to Blueblood was her "outdoor voice," a tone one might adopt when inviting a griffon perched on a distant mountaintop to a knife fight.
"My cousin Applejack is the most honest, hardworking pony one could hope to encounter! Not some fancy courtesan or social climber, but an Earth Pony, noble and true, struggling to earn a few bits for her precious family! And yet, you have rejected her delightful, homespun treats! And not merely rejected them! You spat them back in her face!
"Such rudeness! Such disrespect! To one who is, in heart and spirit, your superior! Shame on you!
"BLUEBLOOD, YOU DISAPPOINT ME GREATLY!"
There may have been a discrete crack of thunder at this point.
"You, sir, are no gallant, but rather a galoot! You, you are a consarned long-eared varmint!" stamped Valencia.
"My ears aren't that long. Are they?" asked Blooey, worried.
"Oh! You are impossible! You stupid, stuck-up, self-involved jackass!"
"Hay!" exclaimed a nearby donkey.
"I apologize, sir. No offense was intended," said Valencia, shame-faced.
"Well, all right. Blighter probably has it coming," said the donkey, adjusting his monocle. "Carry on, then."
"Barney here is more chivalrous than you!" continued Valencia.
"Now, wait--!" objected Blooey.
"What ho!" I said.
"SHUT UP!" they shouted in unison.
Valencia pointed the accusing hoof. Lightning may have flashed from the orbs. "Blueblood, I don't care if you're a prince or not! YOU ARE A BAD APPLE! And there's no place for a BAD APPLE on the Orange family tree! You may consider our engagement... disengaged! Hmmph!"
With a flick of her tail, Valencia trampled off, leaving behind a bruised and flattened silence.
"Tough break, old fellow," I said, after a bit. One must say such things, at such times.
Blooey nodded. He sort of dug his hoof into the pavement, in the way one does at such times.
"B. is thicker than w., as they say," I said.
Blooey nodded.
"Plenty more f. in the s.," I observed.
This gave Blooey a moment's pause, then he nodded again.
"When you're thrown from the h., you've got to get back in the s.," I encouraged.
"Barney?" asked Blooey.
"Yes, dear f.?"
"S.t.f.u."
"O.k."
We gave the old engagement its moment of silence.
Then Blooey looked up, grinning. "Thirsty?" he asked.
"Parched," I admitted.
"Drovers Club?"
"My thought, precisely."
Then, in the way one must at such times, the two of us burst into song:
BLUEBLOOD: At the Drovers!
SELF: In the taproom!
B.: That's where I'd like to be!
S.: Hoisting the odd glass or two with my best chum Prince Bloo-ey!
B.: For we are the best at drinking, I'm sure you will agree!
S.: That's our motto!
B.: Getting blotto!
TOGETHER: And we'll have The Best Pint Ever!