irrelevant questions:

"Didn't we see you back in--what was that village we came through back
about twelve miles?"

"Schoenstrom?" suggested Milt.

"Yes, I think that was it. Didn't we pass you or something? We stopped
at a garage there, to change a tire."

"I don't think so. I was in town, though, this morning. Say, uh, did you
and your father grab any eats----"

"A----"

"I mean, did you get dinner there?"

"No. I wish we had!"

"Well say, I didn't either, and--I'd be awfully glad if you folks would
have something to eat with me now."

Claire tried to give him a smile, but the best she could do was to lend
him one. She could not associate interesting food with Milt and his
mud-slobbered, tin-covered, dun-painted Teal bug. He seemed satisfied
with her dubious grimace. By his suggestion they drove ahead to a spot
where the cars could be parked on firm grass beneath oaks. On the way,
Mr. Boltwood lifted his voice in dismay. His touch of nervous
prostration had not made him queer or violent; he retained a touching
faith in good food.

"We might find some good little hotel and have some chops and just some
mushrooms and peas," insisted the man from Brooklyn Heights.

"Oh, I don't suppose the country hotels are really so awfully good," she
speculated. "And look--that nice funny boy. We couldn't hurt his
feelings. He's having so much fun out of being a Good Samaritan."

From the mysterious rounded back of his car Milt Daggett drew a tiny
stove, to be heated by a can of solidified alcohol, a frying pan that
was rather large for dolls but rather small for square-fingered hands, a
jar of bacon, eggs in a bag, a coffee pot, a can of condensed milk, and
a litter of unsorted tin plates and china cups. While, by his request,
Claire scoured the plates and cups, he made bacon and eggs and coffee,
the little stove in the bottom of his car sheltered by the cook's
bending over it. The smell of food made Claire forgiving toward the fact
that she was wet through; that the rain continued to drizzle down her
neck.

He lifted his hand and demanded, "Take your shoes off!"

"Uh?"

He gulped. He stammered, "I mean--I mean your shoes are soaked through.
If you'll sit in the car, I'll put your shoes up by the engine. It's
pretty well heated from racing it in the mud. You can get your stockings
dry under the cowl."

She was amused by the elaborateness with which he didn't glance at her
while she took off her low shoes and sli