could not find them and was therefore obliged to inquire of his private secretary. George Christian brought them to him immediately, having put the package away so safely that it was hidden from Mr. Harding. "I never knew portraits could be so comforting," he wrote to me. I knew they could be, for I went to bed early every night with my sweetheart's picture propped up beside me on the pillow.
Mr. Harding's generosity took many forms. One time during 1917 or 1918 when we were alone—though I don't remember where—I was sitting on his lap admiring his hands. They were large, well-shaped hands, the hands of capability, yet artistic too, and I never tired watching him use them. They were expressive of many feelings. They fascinated me completely. I was admiring them, and incidentally the ring on the third finger of his left hand. The ring was set with one quite sizable diamond—a beautiful ring in its entirety. Some organization had presented it to him "in appreciation," he said. I think he thought I admired the stone and had visions of having it in a ring for myself!
"So far as I'm concerned, I'd as lief give you this ring, Nan, if it were not for Florence!" He smiled when I looked up at him, and hugged me tight. Frankly, I would have loved the ring, of course, but I knew he could not give it to me. I wonder who has it now, for I would cherish it so if it were in my possession. Many nights I have spent with that hand in mine and twisted and played with that ring. It sparkled at me across the table and I could see a thousand colors in it when I, lying beside him, held his hand up to the light which came through the transom above our bedroom door.
This was, as I said, before 1919. After I had my own ring I found the same pleasure in studying its lights. I remember the morning after he had put my ring upon my engagement
