"What splendid stones!" she said.
Sophie looked into those bright eyes, very like Arthur's, with the same shifting sands in them, but alien to her, she thought.
"Yes," she said quietly. She did not feel inclined to tell Mrs. Henty about the stones.
Mrs. Henty admired the ear-rings, and looked appreciatively at the big flat stone in Mrs. Grant's brooch. Sophie coloured under her attention. She wished she had not worn the opals that did not belong to her.
Looking into Sophie's face, Mrs. Henty became aware of its sensitive, unformed beauty, a beauty of expression rather than features, and of a something indefinable which cast a glamour over the girl. She had been considerably disturbed by Arthur's share in the brawl at Newton's. It was so unlike Arthur to show fight of any sort. If it had not happened after she had sent the invitation, Mrs. Henty would not have spoken of Sophie when she asked Rouminof to play at the ball. As it was, she was not sorry to see what manner of girl she was.
But as Sophie held a small, quiet face before her, with chin slightly uplifted, and eyes steady and measuring, a little disdainful despite their pain and surprise, Mrs. Henty realised it was a shame to have brought this girl to the ball, in order to inspect her; to discover what Arthur thought of her, and not in order that she might have a good time like other girls. After all, she was young and used to having a good time. Mrs. Henty heard enough of Ridge gossip to know any man on the mines thought the world of Sophie Rouminof. She had seen them eager to dance with her at race balls. It was not fair to have side-tracked her about Arthur, Mrs. Henty confessed to herself. The fine, clear innocence which looked from Sophie's eyes accused her. It made her feel mean and cruel. She was disturbed by a sensation of guilt.
Paul was fidgeting at the first bars of the next dance, and, knowing the long programme to go through, Mrs. Henty's hand fell from Sophie's necklace, and Sophie went back to her chair.
But Mrs. Henty's thoughts wandered on the themes she had raised. She played absent-mindedly, her fingers skipping and skirling on the notes. She was realising what she had done. She had not meant to be cruel, she protested: she had just wished to know how Arthur felt about the girl. If he had wanted to dance with her, there was nothing to prevent him.
Arthur was dancing again with Phyllis, she noticed. She was a little annoyed. He was overdoing the thing. And Phyllis was a minx! That was the fourth time she had slipped and Arthur had held her up, the rose in her hair brushing his cheek.
"Mother!" Polly called. "For goodness' sake ... what are you dreaming of?"