From the contents of the letters, Margaery had subconsciously expected a stuffy, older female, somewhere between socially-awkward-from-lack-of-experience (as some learned types tended to be) and overestimation-of-one's-own-intelligence. Instead, she finds herself startled when the good madame turns and greets her with a look that almost makes Margaery's own facial muscles ache in solidarity.

Thankfully, she's given a moment to compose herself, finding her own smile appearing from the infectious nature of this very flattering excitement. It's a lot of personal space discarded in a single moment, but her slow reaction serves her well, disguising her discomfort. "It's quite a pleasure to make your acquaintance in person as well."

(Although the more she hears Madame de Foncé's voice, the more she's certain she's heard it around the dining halls like a bird's song.)

Her eyes stray to the hair that's come loose, and the number of documents on the table, brows taking on a concerned curve. "I'm not disturbing you, am I?"