"It's all right! It's all right, Sophie!"
She shuddered. Her eyes went to him, consciousness in their blank gaze. Potch, realising that, murmured incoherently:
"Don't think of it any more.... It was yours, Sophie. It was for you I was keeping it.... Michael knew that, too. He knew that was why I didn't want to sell.... It was your opal ... to do what you liked with, really. That was what I meant when I put it in your hand. But don't let us think of it any more. I don't want to think of it any more."
"Oh!" Sophie cried, in a bitter wailing; "it's true, I believe ... somebody said once that I'm as unlucky as opal—that I bring people bad luck like opal...."
"You know what we say on the Ridge?" Potch said; "The only bad luck you get through opal is when you can't get enough of it—so the only bad luck you're likely to bring to people is when they can't get enough of you."
"Potch!"
Sophie's hands went to him in a flutter of breaking grief. The forgiveness she could not ask, the gratitude for his gentleness, which she could not express any other way, were in the gesture and exclamation.
On her hands, through his hot, clasped hands, the whole of Potch's being throbbed.
"Don't think of it any more," he begged.
"But it was your luck—your wonderful opal—and ... I broke it, Potch. I spoilt your luck."