"That's a nice bit of colour, Michael," he said, admiring a small piece of grey potch with a black strain which flashed needling rays of green and gold. "A little bit more of that, and you'd be all right, eh?"
Michael nodded. "We're on a streak now," he said. "It ought to work out all right."
"I hope it will." Armitage held the piece of opal to the light and moved it slowly. "Rouminof's working with you now—and Potch, they tell me?"
Michael nodded.
"Pretty hard on him, Charley's getting away with his stones like that!"
John Armitage probed the quiet eyes of the man before him with a swift glance.
"You're right there, Mr. Armitage," Michael said. "Harder on Paul than it would have been on anybody else. He's got the fever pretty bad."
Armitage laughed, handling a stone thoughtfully.
"I gave Jun a hundred pounds for his big stone. I'd give the same for the other—if I could lay my hands on it, though the boys say it wasn't quite as big, but better pattern."
"That's right," Michael said.