destroyed and that now there existed nothing that could be taken as evidence of our dearness to each other—nothing save my first letters from him, my autographed picture of him, and my Harding book of newspaper clippings to which he never seemed to object because the material was public anyway.
We talked about the baby, about his cousins, the Weseners, who lived scarcely half a block from Elizabeth's and many things, all hurried discussions, but still discussions. Then Mr. Harding stood up to take me in his arms.
"Honestly, darling," I exclaimed as I held out my hand for him to pull me to my feet, "You are the best looking thing that I have ever seen!" His smile was the smile of the little snapshot I have of him, the smile he knew I so adored, the smile our daughter gives me occasionally which stirs me so deeply and moves me to tears, it is so sweetly reminiscent of her father's smile. "Well, dearie," he replied, "that's something I just can't help, you know!" And then for a brief space of time—all too brief—we became oblivious to our surroundings, to his identity as President of the United States, and to all the world. "Why don't you tell me you love me, Nan darling," he coaxed, and I told him over and over again, as I had told him a thousand times, "I love you, darling Warren Harding, I love you."
In low tones Mr. Harding told me again how he dreamed of having me all night with him, which prompted my usual query, "How is Mrs. Harding now?" He lifted his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders and replied in the usual way, "Oh, all right!" There was, as I have said, always a certain deprecatory attitude which he seemed to reserve for Mrs. Harding. I remember in one of my very early letters to him back in 1917, I expressed some concern over the possible greetings he might have for his legal wife when he met her again after his absences from home, and in his reply letter he had written, "You need give yourself no concern over that, sweetheart. My kiss for her is most perfunctory, I can assure you!" Indeed, I have often thought with the pardonable vanity of one who is conscious ever of priority in her sweetheart's thoughts, that likely Mrs. Harding was,
