On his desk stood a miniature portrait of his mother, and I observed on my calls upon him at the White House that in her memory fresh flowers frequently stood upon his desk near her portrait.
There was a grate fireplace directly opposite the President’s desk. Here, Mr. Harding told me, he burned all the letters I sent him after he had committed their messages to his heart. In this connection we discussed the loss of the first letter and, deplorable as it was, Mr. Harding said it “was done” and all we could do was to guard against future losses. He begged me to write him much, actually mailing the letters, however, only occasionally and a number at a time. He said he would “sit right in that chair” (indicating his desk chair) and read my letters and think of me. And his expressions of hunger for worded love from me made me homesick in anticipation for the visits I knew could nevermore be as they had been in the past. I promised him he should have many love-letters, and I told him that after all, writing to him and being near our blessed child were the only real joys in my life, and to be separated from him for such long intervals was fully as great a hardship for me as for him.
I recall the dress I wore upon that occasion. It was of white silk crepe with a tiny black figure, a figure so small that from a distance the dress looked grey. It was trimmed with a narrow border of cerise and many-colored wooden beads. With it I wore a rather large picture hat, also cerise, and grey suede slippers and grey stockings. The excitement had brought unnatural roses to my cheeks and, despite my physical weakness, I felt exhilarant and strong when I was with my darling sweetheart.
In the ante-room there was a leather couch, so dilapidated that I remember I remarked to Mr. Harding that one might think it had been there ever since the White House was built. We used to sit there a great deal, especially the times when Tim Slade would wait for me either outside or on the other side of the President’s office, in a large room beyond Mr. Christian’s office and far away from the sound of our voices. And sometimes, especially later on in Mr. Harding’s brief two and one-half years of service, it was wise that we should be away from everybody, for I took many tears down to the White House.
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On this first visit we discussed the wisdom of continuing to send letters in Tim Slade’s care, and Mr. Harding seemed disposed to make a change. I imagine he didn’t want to impose too much upon Tim and didn’t wish to further arouse Tim’s curiosity. At that time Tim was out of the secret service, I believe, though for a month or two after Mr. Harding’s inauguration Tim said he helped George Christian until the latter “got onto” things in a secretarial way.
The most direct channel through which my letters could be delivered into his hands, Mr. Harding said, was to address them in care of his valet. Major Arthur Brooks, a light colored man, who was, in the opinion of Mr. Harding, entirely trustworthy and, what was better, so far as Tim was concerned, Major Brooks was always availably near to deliver them immediately without putting himself out to do so. Mr. Harding always referred to him as “Brooks.” So it was arranged: I was to enclose my letter to the President in another envelope, sealed, and then enclose the whole in an envelope addressed to Major Brooks personally, with a short letter to Brooks instructing him to deliver the enclosure to the President immediately. I remember very well, because I wrote so many of those letters, that they always read something like this:
“My dear Major Brooks:
“Kindly hand the enclosed letter to President Harding immediately upon its receipt. This is in accordance with the President’s request.
Very truly yours,
(Signed) E. Baye.”