Then I went to the phone and called Mrs. Johnstone. After chatting with her a few moments, I told her about Mr. Johnstone’s coming to see me, and pretended I was very sorry I could not receive him. Her amazement was unfeigned.
“Bert Johnstone?” she asked incredulously. “The very same,” I told her. He never called again.
When I came back into the bedroom after closing the door upon Mr. Johnstone, Mr. Harding was hiding in my wardrobe closet, and it did amuse me so to see him. I asked if he thought if anyone did break in, that his being in a closet, with his clothes strewn about on the chairs, would help matters! He laughed, of course.
32
In May or June, while I was still living on East 60th Street in our apartment, Mr. Harding had an engagement to speak at Carnegie Hall. He came over during the day and we were together until time for him to go on the platform. In the evening we dined at the Hotel Manhattan, where, I think, for business reasons, he had engaged a room. He wished to walk to Carnegie Hall from the hotel, which we did. I remember the exact route we took, up Madison Avenue and across 56th Street where we passed several little tea rooms which, Mr. Harding said, he thought ought to be “good and safe” places for me to dine alone in the evenings. He seemed to be afraid I might be annoyed and used to suggest safe places for me to go. He was always looking out for my comfort and peace of mind.
On our way up he inquired of me what this building was and that, and I in turn asked him a question. How could he speak that evening when, as he had told me, he had made no preparation whatever for his speech? “How do you know what to say?” I asked curiously.
“Gee, dearie!” he laughed, “it’s not so much what to say as what not to say!”
When we reached Carnegie Hall, Mr. Harding went to the box office and secured a front-row seat for me, sent me on in, and ascended the platform. I remember well that speech. I did not very often get to hear him speak and it was always such a joy—I was so proud of him. But that speech I remember because he did not do himself justice. He rambled on about this man and that who in one instance had been a “farmer’s son,” and had persevered and become a banker, or “here’s Jim So-and-So, whose father was owner of the stone quarry back in my home town and who worked his way through school....” The Land of Opportunity, I think, was his topic.
Afterwards, in our apartment, I told him he seemed not to speak as well as usual. “Why, dearie,” he confessed, “I was so tired I thought I couldn’t even speak at all!” And I knew enough by that time to understand why. He had a lot on his mind.
There was an evening when we dined at the Savoy. We sat by the window and looked out upon the Plaza Square where the fountain is. The window was open and it was cool and lovely. We had dined there before in the days before prohibition and Mr. Harding, I thought, seemed to be known to the hotel management. We had once had one glass each of champagne at that same table.