A
curious, clandestine little man with a warm heart despite the
exterior. Owen had seen Harding's eyes nil with tears and his voice
tremble when he recited a beautiful passage of English poetry; a
passionate nature, too, for Harding would fight fiercely for his
ideas, and his life had been lived in accordance with his beliefs. As
the years advanced his imaginative writing had become perhaps a
little didactic; his culture had become more noticeable--Owen
laughed: it pleased him to caricature his friends--and he thought of
the stream of culture which every hostess could turn on when Harding
was her guest. The phrase pleased him: a stream of culture flowing
down the white napery of every country house in England, for Harding
travelled from one to another. Owen had seen him laying his plans at
Nice, beginning his year as an old woman begins a stocking (setting
up the stitches) by writing to Lady So-and-so, saying he was coming
back to England at a certain time. Of course Lady So-and-so would
ask him to stay with her. Then Harding would write to the nearest
neighbour, saying, "I am staying with So-and-so for a week and shall
be going on to the north the week after next--now would it be
putting you to too much trouble if I were to spend the interval with
you?" News of these visits would soon get about, and would suggest
to another neighbour that she might ask him for a week.
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