Harding craved to be the father fully as much as I craved to be the mother of his child. His wistfulness was so precious to me. "You know, Nan, I have never been a father," he said.
However, he was deeply concerned for both of us, and in an attempt at a simple solution, he went out and returned with some Dr. Humphrey's No. 11 tablets, which, he said, Mrs. Harding used to take and found in some instances effective. I affirmed my belief that they would do me no good. I even made fun of the tiny white pills. I remember how he smiled faintly at me from the lavatory where he stood washing his hands when I expressed my belief that the pills would not be effective in my case. "No faith, no works, Nan!" he said.
He sat in the big chair by the window and took me on his lap. He told me how I had filled him with the first real longing he had known to have children. He said he had wanted them, yes, but Mrs. Harding had been a mother when he married her, and she had not wanted any more children, and, he reminded me, "You know Mrs. Harding is older than I." I think very probably the glory and wonder of having a child or children could not be aroused within him to the fullest by Mrs. Harding because she had already shared the initial glory of that experience with another man. Mr. Harding always spoke disparagingly to me of Mrs. Harding, and in loving as well as in disposition and everything else he certainly failed to picture her as his ideal. Rather did I seem to be his ideal woman. This never failed to fill me with wonderment.
I told him in mock seriousness that since he had always had such a desire for children I'd have to raise a family for him. "All right, dearie, but let's see how this one comes out!" he answered facetiously.
Again he told me, as he had written me so often since we knew of the coming of our child, how he had "enshrined" me in his heart as "the perfect sweetheart and perfect mother." "Enshrined" was a word he so often used. Or, "You are my
