# The President's Daughter (Britton)/Chapter 5

When my youngest brother, John, was born there was much discussion about what he should be called. I immediately attempted to solve the problem by announcing, "Why, he's going to be named 'Warren,' of course!" Father, in cahoots with "his girl," said we could call him "Warren Le Grand" the latter name for father's only brother, Le Grand Britton. But Mrs. Sinclair, the judge's wife, my mother's friend, seemed to have quite a bit to say in our household and now stepped into the picture. "He's going to be plain John Britton, isn't he, Mrs. Britton?" I think she had in mind John the Baptist, much less deserving of a namesake in my opinion than my beloved Mr. Harding. It took a long time for me to recover from this defeat.
In Marion the livery stables rented by the hour one-seated phaetons, drawn by dependable, equine "plugs," as my father called the drooping animals that jogged about the town pulling the occupants of these pleasure-providing equipages.
Before my doctor-father acquired the small red motor runabout which served to carry him about on his professional calls, he was a good customer at these livery stables, and we children often accompanied him. Often he gave the reins into my small hands and I experienced the thrill of a real charioteer as I called "Giddap!" to the horse and whisked imaginary flies off his back with the reins, even as I had seen my father do.
I have marvelled at what must have been an effort at resigned suspension of parental watchfulness which was responsible for the few memorable afternoons my sister Elizabeth and I ​enjoyed, unchaperoned, and with fine airs, the use of one of these coveted livery conveyances. One such "drive" in particular stands out in my memory because it is coupled with the memory of the only real "call" I ever made upon the Warren Hardings at their Mt. Vernon Avenue home. This occurred the Sunday following the birth of my baby brother.
I always looked up to Elizabeth with great sisterly reverence for her poise and superior judgment. When she privately voiced to me her resentment that mother and father had not consulted us before adding a baby to the family just when she and I were enjoying associations in high school which demanded dignity in our family circle, I followed suit willingly enough and maintained with her an injured air toward mother and father. I was vaguely confident that divine Providence, in the form of the proverbial stork, could have been appealed to to bestow its infantile goods elsewhere had my sister Elizabeth been allowed to take the situation in hand early enough. Here we were now, Elizabeth seventeen and I fourteen, compelled to admit that we had a tiny, squawking, red-faced youngster in our home. How shamefacedly we responded to congratulations! I might say that within a week or so after the baby's arrival, both Elizabeth and I were won over to the tiny bundle and became his willing slaves, and, as time went on, yielded him to mother only when he demanded to be fed, spoiling him with attentions which mother deplored with shaking head and futile admonitions. Just so, in our more extreme youth, we were told, had we spoiled Janet, our baby sister.
In our chagrin at having been precipitately thrust into a position of such embarrassment, Elizabeth and I charged an afternoon's entertainment to father's livery account, endeavoring to assuage our injured pride by driving about the town. I retain a very vivid picture of my sister, sitting erect, holding the reins, her arms begloved with white kid above the elbows. She wore a black hat which turned up on the left, dropping on the right to accommodate the great red rose which hung heavy with "style" on that side. She wore what seemed to ​me a stunning blue and white dress. High-heeled slippers encased the small shapely feet which were always my despair. How insignificant and positively ugly I felt, sitting beside her in my gingham dress, occasionally patting my taffy-colored hair which was pulled tightly away from my face and tied with the stiffest ribbons procurable those days.
Mt. Vernon Avenue afforded quite a lengthy drive before one reached the end of the paved road. When we drove past the Harding residence I observed with rapid heart beats my hero sitting on the front porch. Mrs. Harding was with him. Would I dare to suggest to Elizabeth? . . . no, I'd better not divulge my thoughts to her . . . she didn't care anything about Mr. Harding and probably wouldn't want to waste the time to call upon them. We were passing the house. Mr. and Mrs. Harding smiled and waved to us. My heart pounded madly and I felt the heat in my cheeks. A block later I relaxed and breathed deeply. Elizabeth turned to me suddenly. "Say, why don't we go back and call on the Hardings?" Oh, the blessed intuition of elder sisters! I trembled, but replied enthusiastically, "Oh, yes, let's!" She turned the horse's head in the direction of the Harding home.
In front of the house stood the Stevens-Duryea, the big car which sped about town sometimes carrying my hero. It was parked right in front of the hitching-post, and when Mr. Harding observed our intention of stopping he came lightly down the steps and called to us, saying he would tie our horse; he greeted us with smiles and said we should go on up on the porch. With what seemed to me superhuman strength he pushed his car out of the way and hitched our livery nag.
There was a long hanging swing at the end of the porch. Mr. Harding reseated himself there after Elizabeth and I had taken chairs.
The new-baby topic so painful to us was mercifully avoided. I doubt whether Mr. and Mrs. Harding had even read the announcement of our little brother's birth in their own Marion Daily Star, but if they had they showed excellent restraint!
​Being so engrossed in trying to realize that I was sitting next to the man I so adored naturally left me quite speechless, but my sister Elizabeth did not suffer from this affliction. In fact, she and Mrs. Harding carried on a most animated conversation, the thing I remember most vividly about it being that Mr. Harding's oft-interposed opinions invariably met with vigorous protests from his wife who seemed to me to be very sure that her information about so-and-so was the last word in authority upon the subject and whose remark to her husband, I remember distinctly, usually was either, "Now, Warren, you don't know anything about it!" or, "Well, Warren, I know better!" The topics did not concern me but I did question any piece of information which could inspire such disputatious quality in the tone of Mrs. Harding's voice.
When we left, Mr. and Mrs. Harding accompanied us on the short walk to our carriage. Elizabeth, with vast grown-upness, turned to Mr. Harding. "You know, Mr. Harding, Nan talks of nothing but you! She has little campaign poster pictures of you all over the walls of her room!" Secretly elated that he should actually be told of my adoration in my presence, though outwardly greatly perturbed, I furtively watched the effect it would have upon him. I confess I momentarily forgot all about Mrs. Harding in my eager gaze at her husband's face. I was used to seeing this information amuse the hearer, when dispensed by my parents, and I wondered just a little apprehensively whether Mr. Harding would treat it lightly. But he smiled understandingly, kindly, comfortingly. I ventured to look at Mrs. Harding then. She did not smile.
"Well, Miss Britton," my hero said, looking down at me, "I move that you have a real photograph of me for your wall!" This met with no seconding from his wife however, and somehow I wished in the silence which followed his remark that Elizabeth had not brought up the subject of my admiration for him. Now Mrs. Harding would know it was not she whom I admired, as I had tried to pretend, but her husband only. ​I stole another glance at him. Oh, dear, what was the use of trying to pretend anyway! I just loved him and that was all there was about it. He was like a giant Adonis as he stood there petting the horse before unhitching him for us. I felt so diminutive, so pitifully young! How I adored him!
Memories and revisualizations happily filled my days following this visit . . . but, though I waited long and patiently, the weeks passed by and I failed to receive the expected photograph. Oh, it was cruel to be young!