"Yes, but--unfortunately--no boats."

"It's a very awkward predicament," she murmured.

"Not nearly so awkward as it might have been if there had been no one
here," he said slowly. "At least you won't starve."

"You're very kind. Oh, I hope you won't think me ungrateful. I'm not,
really. I'll not bother you."

He looked at her amusedly.

"Can you cook?"

"No," she admitted, "but I'd like to try."

"I guess you'd better leave that to me," he finished grimly.

He was treating her as though she were a child, but she didn't resent
it now. Indeed his attitude toward her made resentment impossible.
His civility and hospitality, while lacking in the deference of other
men of her acquaintance, were beyond cavil. But it was quite clear
that the only impression her looks or her personality had made upon
him was the slight one of having met and forgotten her--hardly
flattering to her self-esteem. He was quite free from
self-consciousness and at moments wore an air of abstraction which
made it seem to Hermia as though he had forgotten her presence. In
another atmosphere she had thought him unmannerly; here, somehow it
didn't seem necessary to lay such stress upon the outward tokens of
gentility. And his personal civility, more implied than expressed,