Feuilly peeks into the back room of the Musain, only to find it empty, save the tables and chairs and the floating dust that the sun, setting in the window, makes visible. Of course, his luck precisely, he thinks. He rushed straight from work in desperation to avoid being late to the meeting, only to err on the wrong side and arrive first of all. It doesn't matter so much, he thinks, taking a seat. He'll just wait for the others to arrive.
"It is naive to speak of fair and unfair," he says, nodding thanks to Louison, then going back to trying not to stare at Prouvaire. At last he give in and frowns at the little poet. "What... is this a strange exercise?" he asks at last.
"Apologies" he says, ducking his head and shaking away the beginnings of a grin. "I don't always find that true, about the... the inverse proportion of a lady's beauty to her kindness. That is," he says, as earnestly as if it were true scientific theory. "Some of the ladies who walk at night look and act like great beasts."