It was the psychological moment and Catherwood recognized it. Snatching his hat from the book rack he plunged down the stairs. He pulled himself together at the door and stepped, unconcernedly, out upon the porch.
"Good-morning, Mrs. Lowe," he called quite gaily. "Ah, and there's little Mary—sweet child. Come here, Mary, won't you?"
He squatted in the snow at the gate and held out his hands to her. She ran to him with a little cry of delight. The mother's face was radiant.
"Oh, good-morning, Mr. Catherwood," she called.
He smiled and nodded. On the instant he made a vague calculation of the value of Mrs. Lowe's good-will.
He flung his arms around the child and lifted her clear of the walk to her great delight as attested by the cries of glee that escaped her.
Mrs. Lowe stopped at the gate.
"Such a dear child," Catherwood gurgled, holding the tot close to him.
"Do you think so?" the mother murmured.
"So strong and so well," Catherwood added, weighing little Mary in his strong hands.