"You're quite right," I said. "Go on."
"I wish I had married somebody called Jones," said Celia, looking up at me rather reproachfully. "No, no, not Jones," she added hastily down the telephone, and once more she repeated the unhappy name.
"It isn't my fault," I protested. "You did have a choice; I had none. Try spelling it. It spells all right."
Celia tried spelling it.
"I'm going to spell it," she announced very distinctly down the telephone. "Are you ready? … M … No, M. M for mother."
That gave me an idea.
"Come away," I said, seizing the telephone; "leave it to me. Now, then," I called to the porter. "Never mind about the name. Just tell him to ring up his sister." And I looked at Celia triumphantly.
"Ask him to ring up his mother," said the porter. "Very well, sir."
"No, not the mother. That was something else. Forget all about that mother. He's to ring up his sister … sister … SISTER."
"You'll have to spell it," said Celia.