"I adore the lines of draftwork, their cleanliness and simplicity. If you are very skilled at it, the pieces can be arranged and rearranged to appear as a pattern. Very avant-garde, yes? I am thinking particularly of a certain artist of Val Royeaux--Lemoigne--he was so well known for his daring way of painting vines and leaves. Such thin lines that were so little, but said so much. This is what I am thinking of. I am sure you will manage it charmingly."
And at last, he sets the cup upon the tray and sits back. His smile is full of confidence, sunny and radiant.
"We must have something of yours if this sentimentality is to guide our materials. Did you hear what I said? Of the chocolate biscuits?"
Her laugh is very sudden - sounds first like 'Ha!' then descends into further acerbic laughter: You.
"That they taste of chalk, yes. I heard you, Monsieur."
With a cluck of her tongue and a swirl of skirts in place of an eye roll—Charmingly, he says. Adore, he says—Wysteria sweeps for the open door.
"I will consider it. And when I refuse, you will find some suitable substitute and we will consider it even on the basis that there was every any consideration at all in either direction." She has reached the doorway, indeed has breezed through it and around its corner, and only at the very last moment does her hand catch at the frame and draw her back into the opening.
"Refuse," he repeats, amused, as he lays back down again. The pillow goes under his head. Who has ever refused him? The list is very short. Val de Foncé is not worried, nor has he ever been.
When she puts her head around the door, he lifts his head and meets her squinting eye. Considers, before he answers.
"I like cinnamon very much."
A shockingly brief statement. He lays his head back down again.
Her nod is curt. And with a rap of the knuckles on the door frame for confirmation, Wysteria disappears once more into the twisting interior of the old house.
Presumably, she fetches that bottle of white wine and some remaining half box of cinnamon cookies, and returns promptly enough. Presumably, they have a fine afternoon discussing Orlesian lumber and arguing over the semantics of running trade around Val Chevin. Presumably, at least one of them at some point sits in a chair.
In the grand scheme of business meetings, it is a perfectly productive use of time.
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no subject
And at last, he sets the cup upon the tray and sits back. His smile is full of confidence, sunny and radiant.
"We must have something of yours if this sentimentality is to guide our materials. Did you hear what I said? Of the chocolate biscuits?"
no subject
"That they taste of chalk, yes. I heard you, Monsieur."
With a cluck of her tongue and a swirl of skirts in place of an eye roll—Charmingly, he says. Adore, he says—Wysteria sweeps for the open door.
"I will consider it. And when I refuse, you will find some suitable substitute and we will consider it even on the basis that there was every any consideration at all in either direction." She has reached the doorway, indeed has breezed through it and around its corner, and only at the very last moment does her hand catch at the frame and draw her back into the opening.
She squints at him.
"What are your feelings on cinnamon?"
no subject
When she puts her head around the door, he lifts his head and meets her squinting eye. Considers, before he answers.
"I like cinnamon very much."
A shockingly brief statement. He lays his head back down again.
no subject
Presumably, she fetches that bottle of white wine and some remaining half box of cinnamon cookies, and returns promptly enough. Presumably, they have a fine afternoon discussing Orlesian lumber and arguing over the semantics of running trade around Val Chevin. Presumably, at least one of them at some point sits in a chair.
In the grand scheme of business meetings, it is a perfectly productive use of time.