"My mother says," Mirry Flail remarked one day, "she wouldn't be a bit surprised to see you marrying Arthur Henty, Sophie, and going over to live at Warria."
"Goodness!" Sophie exclaimed, surprised and delighted that anybody should think such a thing.
"Marry Arthur Henty and go over and live at Warria." Her mind, like a delighted little beaver, began to build on the idea. It did not alter her bearing with Arthur. She was less shy and thoughtful with him, perhaps; but he did not notice it, and she was carelessly and childishly content to have found the meaning of why she and Arthur liked meeting and talking together. People only felt as she and Arthur felt about each other if they were going to marry and live "happy ever after," she supposed.
When Michael was aware of what was being said, and of the foundation there was for gossip, he was considerably disturbed. He went to talk to Maggie Grant about it. She, he thought, would know more of what was in the wind than he did, and be better able to gauge what the consequences were likely to be to Sophie.
"I've been bothered about it myself, Michael," she said. "But neither you nor me can live Sophie's life for her.... I don't see we can do anything. His crowd'll do all the interfering, if I know anything about them."
"And, as far as I can see, it won't do any good our butting in," Mrs. Grant continued. "You know Sophie's got a will of her own ... and she's always had a good deal her own way. I've talked round the thing to her ... and I think she understands."
"You've always been real good to her, Maggie," Michael said gratefully.
"As to that"--the lines of Maggie Grant's broad, plain face rucked to the strength of her feeling--"I've done what I could. But then, I'm fond of her--fond of her as you are, Michael. That's saying a lot. And you know what I thought of her mother. But it's no use us thinking we can buy Sophie's experience for her. She's got to live ... and she's got to suffer."
Busy with her opal-cutting, and happy with her thoughts, Sophie had no idea of the misgiving Michael and Maggie Grant had on her account, or that anyone was disturbed and unhappy because of her happiness. She sang as she worked. The whirr of her wheel, the chirr of sandstone and potch as they sheared away, made a small, busy noise, like the drone of an insect, in her house all day; and every day some of the men brought her stones to face and fix up. She had acquired such a reputation for making the most of stones committed to her care that men came from the Three Mile and from the Punti with opals for her to rough-out and polish.