"You see," he said, "you could still have all those things you spoke of, under my scheme--the long, quiet days; life that is broad and simple; the hearth; home, children--all that sort of thing ... and even time for any of the little social reform schemes you fancied...."
Sophie found herself confronted with the fundamental difference of their outlook again. He talked as if the ideas which meant so much to her and to people of the Ridge were the notions of headstrong children--whimsical and interesting notions, perhaps, but mistaken, of course. He was inclined to make every allowance for them.
"The only little social reform I'd have any time for," she murmured, "would be the overthrowing of your scheme for ownership of the mines."
John Armitage was frankly surprised to find that she held so firmly to the core of the Ridge idea, and amused by the uncompromising hostility of her attitude. Sophie herself had not thought she was so attached to the Ridge life and its purposes, until there was this suggestion of destroying them.
"Then"--he stood up suddenly--"whether I succeed or whether I don't--whether the scheme goes my way or not--won't make any difference to you--to us."
"It will make this difference," Sophie said. "I'm heart and soul in the life here, I've told you. And if you do as you say you're going to ... instead of thinking of you in the old, good, friendly way, I'll have to think of you as the enemy of all that is of most value to me."
"You mean," John Armitage cried, his voice broken by the anger and chagrin which rushed over him, "you mean you're going to take on Henty--that's what's at the back of all this."
"I mean," Sophie said steadily, her eyes clear green and cool in his, "that I'm going to marry Potch, and if Michael and all the rest of the men of the Ridge go over to you and your scheme, we'll fight it."
"Are you there, Potch?" Sophie stood in the doorway of Michael's hut, a wavering shadow against the moonlight behind her.
Michael looked up. He was lying on the sofa under the window, a book in his hands.
His voice was as distant as though he were talking to a stranger. He had been trying to read, but his mind refused to concern itself with anything except the night before, and the consequences of it. His eyes had followed a trail of words; but he had been unable to take any meaning from them. Sophie! His mind hung aghast at the exclamation of her. She was the storm-centre. His thoughts moved in a whirlwind about her. He did not understand how she could have worn that dress showing her shoulders and so much of her bared breast. It had surprised, confused, and alarmed him to see Sophie looking as she did in that photograph Dawe Armitage had brought to the Ridge. The innocence and sheer joyousness of her laughter had reassured him, but, as the evening wore on, she seemed to become intoxicated with her own gaiety.