"Now eat!" he said, quietly.
She looked down at the food and then uncertainly up to his face. Never in her life, that she could remember, had she been addressed to peremptorily. His lips smiled, but there was no denying the note of command in his voice and in his attitude. Curiously enough she found herself fingering at the coffee cup.
"There's a lump of sugar in it," he added, "and another on the saucer.
I have no cream."
"I—I don't care for cream, thanks."
There seemed nothing to do, since he still stood there looking at her, but to eat, and she did so without further remarks. He watched her for a moment and then went in at the door, returning in a moment with another cup of coffee and another dish. Without a word he sat on the step of the porch and followed her example, munching his toast and sipping his coffee with grave deliberateness, his eyes following hers to the distant shore.
Hermia's appetite had come with eating and she had discovered that his coffee was delicious. She made a belated resolution that, if she must stay here, she would do it with a good grace. He had offered to fill her coffee cup and to bring more toast, but, beyond inquiring politely how she felt, had asked her no other questions. When he had breakfasted he took her dishes and his own indoors and put them in the kitchen sink, then came to the door stuffing some tobacco into the bowl of his disreputable pipe.
"I hope I'm safe in assuming that tobacco smoke is unobjectionable to you."
"Oh, quite."
A glance at his eyes revealed the suspicion of a smile. There was humor in the man, after all. She looked up at him more graciously.
"I suppose you're wondering where I dropped from," she said at last.