Michael was standing beside him before the words were well out of his mouth.
"What did you say?" he demanded.
"I'm sorry, Michael," Jun replied, after a quick, scared glance at the faces of the men about him. "But I took it for granted you all knew, of course. We saw them a good bit together down in Sydney, Maud and me, and she said she saw Sophie on the Zealanida the day the boat sailed. Maud was down seeing a friend off, and she saw Sophie and Mr. Armitage on board. She said—"
Michael turned heavily, and swung out of the bar.
Jun looked after him. In the faces of the men he read what a bomb his news had been among them.
"I wouldn't have said that for a lot," he said, "if I'd 've thought Michael didn't know. But, Lord, I thought he knew ... I thought you all knew."
In the days which followed, as he wandered over the plains in the late afternoon and evening, Michael tried to come to some understanding with himself of what had happened. At first he had been too overcast by the sense of loss to realise more than that Sophie had gone away. But now, beyond her going, he could see the failure of his own effort to control circumstances. He had failed; Sophie had gone; she had left the Ridge.
"God," he groaned; "with the best intentions in the world, what an awful mess we make of things!"
Michael wondered whether it would have been worse for Sophie if she had gone away with Paul when her mother died. At least, Sophie was older now and better able to take care of herself.
He blamed himself because she had gone away as she had, all the same; the failure of the Ridge to hold her as well as his own failure beat him to the earth. He had hoped Sophie would care for the things her mother had cared for. He had tried to explain them to her. But Sophie, he thought now, had more the restless temperament of her father. He had not understood her young spirit, its craving for music, laughter, admiration, and the life that could give them to her. He had thought the Ridge would be enough for her, as it had been for her mother.