For a long time they sat silent at the window. The boy dreamed hopefully of the times to come--serenity restored. For the moment the woman was forgetful of the foreshadowed days, happy that the warm, pulsing little body of her son lay unshrinking in her arms: so conscious of his love and life--so wishful for a deeper sense of motherhood--that she slipped her hand under his jacket and felt about for his heart, and there let her fingers lie, within touch of its steady beating. The lights still twinkled and flashed and aimlessly wandered in the night; but the spell of the river was lifted. [Illustration: Headpiece to _A Garden of Lies_] _A GARDEN OF LIES_ Withal it was a rare mood: nor, being wise, was she given to expressing it in this gloomy fashion. It was her habit, rather, assiduously to woo him: this with kisses, soft and wet; with fleeting touches; with coquettish glances and the sly display of her charms; with rambling, fantastic tales of her desirability in the regard of men--thus practicing all the familiar fascinations of her kind, according to the enlightenment of the world she knew. He must be persuaded, she thought, that his mother was beautiful, coveted; convinced of her wit and gaiety: else he would not love her. Life had taught her no other way.... And always at break of day, when he awoke in her arms, she waited, with a pang of anxiety, pitilessly recurring, lest there be some sign that despite her feverish precautions the heedless world had in her nightly absence revealed that which she desperately sought to hide from him.... Thus, by and by, when the lamp was alight--when the shadows were all chased out of the window, driven back to the raw fall night, whence they had crept in--she lapsed abruptly into her natural manner and practices. She spread a newspaper on the table, whistling in a cheery fashion, the while covertly observing the effect of this lively behaviour. With a knowing smile, promising vast gratification, she got him on her knee; and together, cheek to cheek, her arm about his waist, they bent over the page: whereon some function of the rich, to which the presence of the Duchess of Croft and of the distinguished Lord Wychester had given sensational importance, was grotesquely pictured. "Now, mother," said he, spreading the picture flat, "show me you." "This here lady," she answered, evasively, "is the Duchess of Croft." "Is it?" he asked, without interest. "She is very fat. Where are you?" "And here," she proceeded, "is Lord Wychester." "Mother," he demanded, "where are _you_?" She was disconcerted; no promising evasion immediately occurred to her. "Maybe," she began, tentatively, "this lady here----" "Oh, no!" he cried, looking up with a little laugh. "It is not like you, at all!" "Well," she said, "it's probably meant for me." He shook his head; and by the manner of this she knew that he would not be deceived.