Our interview with Mr. Filbert was rather a lengthy one and I thought there were infused in it the elements of a battle of wits between the two men. Mr. Filbert seemed to resent Mr. Harding's assurance that "Miss Britton can write all of your letters for you!" But, as usual, when we left it was Mr. Filbert who had been won over and I was asked to await a letter from him telling in which branch of service in the Steel Corporation I would be placed.
Going down in the elevator, Mr. Harding whispered to me, "Now, do you believe that I love you?"
We took a taxi back to the Manhattan Hotel. We stopped at the 43rd Street entrance. The taxi had not drawn close enough to the curb and there was a space of perhaps ten inches between the running-board and the sidewalk. Mr. Harding caught his foot and tripped, falling in a very awkward position. His face became red and he arose the most embarrassed man imaginable. I remember how it immediately reminded me of a story mother used to tell about my doctor-father, accompanied also by a young lady, when he was making calls in his shiny "buggy", being suddenly seized with cramps which bore him to the ground when he alighted in front of the patient's house; he had been obliged to remain in a squatting position for several moments. Mr. Harding's blush of confusion after his fall remained a good many minutes and was explained by him, "You see, dearie, I'm so crazy about you that I don't know where I'm stepping!"
The bridal chamber at the Manhattan seemed almost to be our home when we returned to it for the second time, and the manner in which we threw off our wraps and settled ourselves together comfortably in the big arm-chair the most natural thing in the world. And the fact that Mr. Harding told me dozens of times the thing I had always longed to hear from him, "I love you, dearie," seemed no less the perfectly natural and normal thing. "We were made for each other, Nan," he said.
