recall how one time Mr. Harding and I were motoring in New York, in a car hired by him for the purpose by the hour, and were passing under the elevated bridge at Broadway and 64th Street, when I said to him, "Darling, you have such beautiful eyes. Somehow I never can really see into them." And he smiled and answered, "Aren't they too sad, Nan?" Yes, I told him, they were sad, but beautifully and spiritually sad.
He, in turn, seemed to delight in telling me how he loved my eyes, my lips, my teeth, my woman's body, my voice, and my nose. It was when he said he loved my nose that I would interrupt him. "Oh, now I know you must be fooling," I would say, "because I have always heard from my family how big my nose is!" But he would shake his head and smile and plant a kiss right upon the end of that emphasized feature and swear over and over again, "I love your nose!"
It was with a great sense of relief that I looked now to my return to New York. Daisy Harding was my friend, she knew the whole story, she loved her brother dearly, and I was sure she would act quickly in acquainting her family with a situation which needed immediately to be righted for the sake of her brother's child.
The motor trip to Washington with Carrie Votaw and her friends was, for me at least, a lark. Not since my early days in France, before the tragic news of Mr. Harding's death reached me, had I experienced such comparative relaxation, mentally. We were a jolly four, singing songs, reciting pieces, and talking about everything—everything except those things which lay nearest my heart. I was thankful that there would be no more mental metastasis to shock and hurt me. My answer to all fears henceforth would be, "Daisy knows; Daisy knows!" And I would soon, through the goodness which I knew was as inherent a
