He's from a completely different world to hers, and that doesn't solely refer to where they actually come from. It's also her mingling with people from a certain social strata who think that it means something, where there are a lot of farces and pretenses, and him just plain not giving a shit about any of that. He wouldn't fit in in that kind of world with mud and snow on his boots. His hat has probably seen more shit than the people she's had the pleasure of passing the decades with.

There's no pretences when he glances up at her, wordlessly letting her know he's about to touch the tender area around the wound before he does so.

"Well I am glad you are not dead, but this has been left to fester for a while. It does not look good." It's hard to read the furrow in his eyebrows what 'not look good' means. Probably somewhere in between worse than what her apparent vanity can handle and better than a slow and unpleasant death.

Turning half around to fetch a damp cloth, he wrings the water out and starts dabbing around the wound, squinting a little to see if any small foreign particles have managed to lodge themselves in the wound.

"With arrows, often the best way out is through." This looks like she or someone else had pulled it out the way it went in, doing more unnecessary damage. "I'm going to wash this out and stitch this up." He'll be as neat as he can make it but she's crazy if she thinks it won't scar no matter what anyone can do to it.