"Ah!" ejaculated Catherine, and lapsed into awkward silence again. Everything was so strange to her that she could not collect her thoughts at all.
"Leave him to me, darling—I'll dry him," said the mother to Mary; and the little mortal was soon dried, chuckling and crowing again in a warm blanket.
He looked at the stranger and laughed, pointing to her with his chubby fist to attract her attention.
"He has evidently taken to you, Mrs. King," said the proud mother. "Isn't he a fine boy?" and she handed him to her—the baby stretching out his arms and kicking lustily in his eagerness to be taken up by a new friend.
Catherine mechanically took him in her arms and held him in a constrained, stiff way, looking at him as if he were some entirely new animal to her, and as if she did not know what to make of him, or whether he was dangerous or not.
It had doubtlessly been a long time since she had held a baby in her arms, though she discussed them a good deal in the abstract.
The extreme awkwardness of her position, and the uncomfortable look of her face, as she stood with the infant White in the middle of the room, would have made Mary laugh at the ridiculousness of the whole situation, were it not that the hidden meaning of the scene made her heart bleed with pity and sorrow.
It was indeed a relief to Catherine when the baby was put to bed and they went downstairs into the drawing-room.
The invalid, tired out by the day's excitement, was sent to bed shortly after tea, and the two women were left alone. Notwithstanding the incongruity of the society, the evening passed pleasantly enough.