ing, oh, so tired and miserable. I remembered hearing Mrs. Harding one time tell how "Warren" was pathetically afraid of pneumonia, above all other ills. I remembered so dearly the things that had seemed to throw such an atmosphere of finality over our last visit in the White House—his little parting advises, our lingering kisses, his general despair. And vividly did I recall my forebodings just five evenings before in Geneva. And the memory of each dark thought added terror to my heart.
Miss Anderson found me a few minutes later, having followed the lead of the open gate. I read the headlines to her through dry lips and held the partially crushed paper up for her to see. "All paper talk," she said shortly. She bade me come in, as dinner was being served. I could not tell her why I was so vitally concerned over the illness of the President of the United States, and she, of course, thought it was but natural sympathy for a man who had been a family friend. "You're silly to take paper talk so seriously," she reproved. I followed her into the house and found my place at the table. "'Just paper talk,' as Helen says," I told myself in desperate hope. "Now go on and eat your dinner or you'll be ill yourself from worry and lack of food." So I forced food down and passed dishes to and fro and listened to voiced speculations from those around the table, particularly those in our American party, about the probable severity of President Harding's illness.
Mlle. Daillant was endeavoring as usual to dazzle the American at her right with charms and conversation, and part of me listened apathetically to this babble of French while the other part continued the contemplation of the newspaper report and an advisable course of action . . . . the Italian shot solicitous glances my way throughout the meal, but I could only raise dull eyes to him . . . . maybe I ought to marry him, I thought . . . . he was a nice fellow . . . . maybe if I married him, or somebody, it might relieve Mr. Harding's mind of much worry even though we both would suffer in other ways as a consequence of such marriage . . . the Norwegian professor's wife looked as though she had been weeping, though her eyes were always red,
