"Indeed, a man of twenty is not a child at all," Guillemette agreed—she had something invested in that being the truth, since she was exactly twenty, as well. And she was an adult. She smiled, taking another sip of her wine, and briefly mulling over what she would ask next. And of who. Her curiosity pushed her toward the foreign woman; she had known green young boys from Val Royeaux and old men from the provincial towns like Jader or Mont-de-Glace. She had never known too many foreigners.
So, turning a little to face the painted woman, she tried to speak a little slowly. Ostensibly to make it easier for the woman, with her limited Orlesian, to understand her; it might come across as talking down, but that would not have occurred to Guillemette. "Where do you come from, madame? Is it very distant?"
She had briefly debated the proper title, madame or mademoiselle, but the foreign mercenary appeared older than her, at least, and madame seemed more respectful.