He went to the door, and the rest of the men followed him.
"Well, Michael," Dawe Armitage said when the men had gone out, "I guess you know what it is I want to talk to you about."
Michael jerked his head slightly by way of acknowledgment.
"That little girl of yours."
Michael smiled. It always pleased and amused him to hear people talk as if he and not Paul were Sophie's father.
"She"—old Armitage leaned back on the sofa, and a shade of perplexity crossed his face—"I've seen a good deal of her, Michael, and I've tried to keep an eye on her—but I don't mind admitting to you that a man needs as many eyes as a centipede has legs to know what's coming to him where Sophie's concerned. But first of all ... she's well ... and happy—at least, she appears to be; and she's a great little lady."
He brooded a moment, and Michael smoked, watching his face as though it were a page he were trying to read.
"You know, she's singing at one of the theatres in New York, and they say she's doing well. She's sought after—made much of. She's got little old Manhattan at her feet, as they say.... I don't want to gloss over anything that son of mine may have done—but to put it in a nutshell, Michael, he's in love with her. He's really in love with her—wants to marry her, but Sophie won't have him."
Michael did not speak, and he continued:
"And there's this to be said for him. She says it. He isn't quite so much to blame as we first thought. Seems he'd been making love to her... and did a break before.... He didn't mean to be a blackguard, y' see. You know what I'm driving at, Michael. He loved the girl and went—She says when she knew he had gone away, she went after him. Then—well, you know, Michael ... you've been young ... you've been in love. And in Sydney ... summer-time ... with the harbour there at your feet....