Perhaps she was thinking the same thing.

It certainly had been very pleasant to enjoy the spontaneous and chivalrous homage of these men, with no further suggestion of recompense or responsibility than the permission to be worshipped; but beyond that she racked her brain in vain to recall any look or act that proclaimed the lover.

These men, whom she had found so relapsed into barbarism that they had forgotten the most ordinary forms of civilization; these men, even in whose extravagant admiration there was a certain loss of self-respect, that as a woman she would never forgive; these men, who seemed to belong to another race--impossible! Yet it was so.
"What construction must they have put upon her father's acceptance of their presents--of their company--of her freedom in their presence?
No! they must have understood from the beginning that she and her sister had never looked upon them except as transient hosts and chance acquaintances.

Any other idea was preposterous.

And yet--" It was the recurrence of this "yet" that alarmed her.