# The President's Daughter (Britton)/Chapter 23

I used to love these dinners with Mr. Harding. They were so sweetly intimate, and it was a joy just to sit and look at him. The way he used his hands, the adorable way he used to put choice bits of meat from his own plate onto mine, the way he would say with a sort of tense seriousness, "That's a very becoming hat, Nan," or, "God, Nan, you're pretty!" used to go to my head like wine and make food seem for the moment the least needful thing in the world.
But there was nothing whatever the matter with my appetite. Perhaps I was still adding stature at twenty, which has been known to give zest to one's appetite. Whatever the reason, it would not be exaggerating greatly to admit that I was, at least in my own opinion, quite a young gormandizer. I remember writing to Mr. Harding, "You're not in love with a girl—she's a hungry little animal!"
Mr. Harding himself was, I thought, quite an epicure, despite the fact that he could enjoy plain, substantial food. Eggs were my breakfast stand-by, but invariably Mr. Harding's query when we breakfasted together would be, "Will you have codfish cakes with me this morning, dearie?" In fact, I do not remember that he seemed to care for eggs at all. He seemed fond of honey-dew melon, I remember. He would look across the table (which seemed to me always to be at least half a mile wide!) and inquire smilingly, "How about a little ​orange marmalade this morning, Nan?" I never could make up my mind whether he ordered this for me because he knew I had a sweet tooth, or whether he really liked it himself; I'm inclined to the latter opinion.
But it was at dinner that Mr. Harding could play the host to great advantage so far as I was concerned. I have been introduced to many delicious dishes through Mr. Harding. Often these things, ordered by him after a side consultation with the waiter to which I hugely enjoyed listening, were served by Mr. Harding instead of by the waiter. How he seemed to love to hear me exclaim over a dish that was new to me!
The dessert course usually inclined me to an enthusiastic inspection of the menu. Mr. Harding knew this and his query, "What kind of sweets tonight, Nan?" was accompanied by a smile and the adjustment of his Oxford glasses. Then he himself would suggest, and his smile deepen as I would childishly exclaim, "Oh, yes, I just adore biscuit tortoni!" I early observed that he himself was inclined to skip this course of the dinner, and grew glad, because then he could plan our evening aloud while I acquainted myself fully with the contents of the little cup in front of me.
I remember that Mr. Harding never seemed to care for the ice-water served in hotels. I can just hear him, either at dinner, or after we had retired to the privacy of our room, instructing the attendant, "Bring me a bottle of White Rock, George."
Mr. Harding's table manner charmed me. I say "manner" because the plural would be taken for granted once one had seen him. With what grace he ate and talked! With his eyes upon me, it was impossible for me to concentrate upon two things at one time, impossible to give the necessary heed for enjoyment to the most delicately served viands-under-glass when it was expected that I should look up and make ardent reply to an affectional question. Therefore, when I was wont to sit absorbed, I would suddenly be reminded in gentle tones that my food must be getting cold! But I have known this ​absorption to work mutually, when we were lost to ourselves and our surroundings in the depths of each other's eyes.
So potent was this spell which we had for each other that for whole evenings we were its willing prisoners, living as in a dream, neither of us coming out from the intoxication of each other's presence until long after separation. Often then we wrote to each other about it. If we were in a taxi, we would become so oblivious to the entire world we would both be amazed when we reached our destination.
I was so proud of Mr. Harding, too, for he never entered a room that all eyes were not turned in his direction. I used to think of Florence Harding, his wife, in this connection, for I knew well his fascination and could readily understand how she, or any other woman, might "run after him" as Marionites say she pursued Warren Harding before they were married, when she was Florence Kling DeWolfe, and years older than Warren Harding. I understood, for hadn't I followed him around when I was but a child back in our home town?