[ Bastien begins to smile, at the first part, but it's snuffed out so quickly it might have only been a twitch. His hands fold on his desk. He gave himself too much credit, it appears, believing he might be the direct source of her frustration rather than badly-timed salt in a preexisting wound. Who is going around cornering people at their desks to tell them they behaved badly toward her?

—perhaps Ellis. Perhaps Stark. Perhaps her husband. Or perhaps that's none of their styles, and perhaps she would be furious with them if they tried. He really doesn't know her very well at all, beyond some merry exchanges and the impression of a bright, genteel force of nature. ]

I would forgive much sharper language than that, Madame.

[ He shifts back in his seat, arms sliding so his folded hands transfer to his stomach. ]

I think it's a good idea. I'll be ready when you are. Do you know what you'd like to call it?