"'Lo, May, oh-h, May, 'lo, May," it gurgled, excitedly.
"Hello, babykins," I said. "Is that a new song you've learned that you're singing for me?"
"No-o-o." Maria Annunciata's tones showed her scorn for grown-up denseness. "I was just 'ginning my conversation," she added, with dignity.
I apologized.
"An' papa says," went on the adorable childish treble, "'at if your play lasses till a mat'née, I—can—go—an'—see—it!"
"Bless your heart, so you shall, my baby," I laughed. "And if the play lasses only a few minutes, I'll give you a 'mat'née' all by yourself. Where's that kiss I was to have? I need it very much."
"Here 'tis. Here's fourteen an' 'leven." They came to me over the wire in a succession of reports like the popping of tiny corks. "An' papa says say good-by now, so I mus'. But I love you very mush!"
"Good-by, darling. I love you very mush, too."
I turned from the telephone wonderfully cheered by the little talk, but almost before I had hung up the receiver the bell rang again.
"Hello, May. If you've finished that impassioned love scene with which you have kept the wire sizzling for the last half-hour I'd like to utter a few calming words."