My interest in France, in Europe, in the whole world was over now. All I wanted was to get back to America and to Elizabeth Ann. I wondered if Mr. Harding’s funeral would be held before I reached home. I did hope everything was safe so far as our love-story was concerned, for my sweetheart’s sake. Miss Anderson calmed my fears on this score when I spoke to her about it. She said of course nothing would “get out” about a President who had just passed on. But I was afraid, anyway, and I was anxious to get back to take care for him that nothing was said. Of course if anything were said about him, I would lie for him. I could always say Elizabeth Ann belonged to someone else. And he was protected—unless he had left some of my letters or some of my pictures in his desk. But probably his private secretary, George Christian, would obey him and burn those things in his private drawer without looking at them. I feared for Elizabeth Ann. If they did find it out, what might they not do with her! Kidnap her and worry me to my very death? Oh, yes, I must get back immediately.

I did not have sufficient funds to go on any boat outside of the one our Armstrong party was scheduled to return on. And only the day before I had spent about $40 on the cerise dress and other foolish things. I told my Italian friend that my sister “was very ill” and he came to my rescue with a loan of 1,500 francs ($90). Helen Anderson had offered to cable her sister for extra funds, but I did not wish to await the return of her sister’s cable. The $90 would suffice to secure for me a change of cabin in another boat on the French Line, in addition to the amount I was allowed on my regular return passage. The boat, the France, would sail the 11th of August. Yes, they would have buried him by the time I reached America, I was sure. My thoughts never ceased. They ran on and on, and sometimes I felt that likely it was the ability to think that had kept me from losing the ability to think.

Miss Anderson, saddened over Mr. Harding’s death, and having had enough of Dijon anyway, left with me, as did a young man who had been with us a good deal on the tour. He accompanied me, in fact, to Havre, at Helen Anderson’s expense, and put me on my boat. I had secured a double cabin all to myself because the clerk saw that I looked ill. And never was I so glad to leave any place in my life. I saw the shores of France recede and turned my face toward America.

104

The feeling of unreality which I had been experiencing in connection with Mr. Harding’s death continued, and it seemed to me those days on the ocean enroute home that I possessed two distinct entities: the one, myself, who suffered constantly, underneath her comparative calm, and another who seemed always to be looking on. This second self watched me, I might say watched over me, observing that I did necessary things in a normal manner—that I dressed, breakfasted, talked, read, dined, and even slept. This second self seemed also to approve of my companionships on board, especially with a Swiss Frenchman who sat at my table and who seemed to appreciate that I had been through some kind of ordeal. He thought it strange that I didn’t care to dance, but walked with me and sat with me on the deck and gave me interesting books to read.

The passengers, at my table and elsewhere, very naturally talked about Mr. Harding’s death. I had grown used to hearing him discussed anywhere I might go, and this fact may have helped to make it possible for me to listen to their talk until I could quietly excuse myself or otherwise slip away unobserved.

My funds were almost exhausted. I had cabled Captain Neilsen to have money awaiting me in New York, having received a radio from him that he was soon to leave for an indefinite period. And he had wired me back, “Call for funds at American Express Office.” I had scarcely enough money left to tip the stewards.

Each day there was a pool won by the passenger who guessed the final numeral in the mileage made by the steamer at the end of a certain hour. My Swiss friend, seeming fond of sports of that kind, always bet on some number. I did not know that one who bets must also deposit $6 of the $60 which went to make up the pool and, when he said to me one day, “Put your name down against a number,” I chose 5. Unknown to me he had put $6 into the pool for me. The following day I was informed I had guessed the lucky number. It was long afterward, even here in New York, that I discovered he had made the necessary deposit for me. He seemed at the time I won to be much more pleased than I, saying he “loved to see girls win things.” Inasmuch as I had about $5 left you may be sure the $60 lucky cash came in handy!

Mr. Harding’s generosity had made of me a far more extravagant girl than might have been the case had he not made me feel that I needn’t be so saving. I remember one time when I went to the White House, he said to me, “Nan, darling, do you know how much I have sent you since such-and-such a date?” He added, “Not that I am complaining, dearie; I want you to have everything you want within reason, so long as there is no comment.”

Another time, when he was hugging me so tightly, sitting there on the dilapidated leather couch in the ante-room, I said, “Oh, sweetheart, you are tearing my blouse!” He did not loose his hold of me; simply answered in a voice I knew was smiling, as he sought my lips, “Well, if I tear it, I’ll buy you another one!”