"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.
Bully Bryant and Roy O'Mara were often at Rouminof's in the evening, and they heard about it when they looked in at Newton's later on, now and then.
"You must be striking it pretty good down at the Punti, Bull," Watty Frost ventured genially one night. "See you takin' stones for Sophie to fix up pretty near every evenin'."
"There's some as sees too much," Bully remarked significantly.
"What you say, you say y'rself, Bull." Watty pulled thoughtfully on his pipe, but his little blue eyes squinted over his fat, red-grained cheeks, not in the least abashed.
"I do," Bull affirmed. "And them as sees too much ... won't see much ... when I'm through with 'em."
"Mmm," Watty brooded. "That's a good thing to know, isn't it?"