She drew him to her. She realized the dull hopelessness of the child and wondered what would be his estimate of her, if he remembered, when he became a man. Would he think that he had been tampered with and made the plaything of a foolish woman’s idleness? She wanted to provide against that. She wanted him always to think well of her. She felt almost humble in the presence of his accusing silence. She had a strange longing to apologize. “It hasn’t--hasn’t been quite our day, Teddy--not quite the day we’d planned. I’m dreadfully sorry; I wouldn’t have had it happen this way for the world.” He didn’t stir--didn’t say a word. She made her voice sound as if she were crying; he wasn’t certain that she wasn’t crying. “You’re not angry with me, are you? It’s so difficult being grown up. Sooner or later every one gets angry, even Hal. But I thought that my littlest lover would be different--that, though he didn’t understand, he’d still like me and believe that I’d tried----” His arms shot up and clasped her neck. In the flashlight of the passing street lamps she saw his face, quivering and tear wet. She couldn’t account for it, why she, a woman, should be so deeply moved. She had conjured dreams of a man who would one day gaze into her eyes like that, believing only the best that was in her and, because of that belief, making the best permanent. She had experimented with the world and knew that she would never meet the man; love lit passion in men’s eyes. But for a moment she had found that faith in the face of a little child. The fickleness and wildness died down in her blood; the moment held a purifying silence. Taking his face between her hands, she kissed his lips. “I’m going away,” she whispered. “Whatever you hear, even when you’ve become a man, believe always that I wanted to be good. Believe that, whatever happens. Promise me, Teddy. It--it’ll help.” CHAPTER XIV--BELIEVING HER GOOD For a week he had no news of her. Then his father said to him one morning, “Oh, by the way, _The Garden Enclosed_ is going to be exhibited. I asked Miss Jodrell to lend it to me.” “Will--will she bring it herself?” he asked, trying to disguise his anxiety. “Herself! No. She’s rather an important person. She’s gone to America.” Then the news leaked out that Hal had gone too. Some nights later he was driving back down Eden Row with his father. They had been to the gallery where the picture was hanging. Without warning the cab pulled up with a jerk; he found himself clinging to the dashboard. His eyes were staring into the gas-lit gloom of Eden Row.