"That makes no difference. The telephone operator at the St. Francis calls me by name every morning."
"So she does me," he returned.
I did not believe him. I could not think that this beautiful young girl—I was sure that any girl with such a voice must be young and beautiful—would cheapen her vocal favors by dispensing them broadcast. For her to coo my name to me each morning was merely a delicate attention, but for her to do the same to him seemed, somehow, brazen.
I pondered the matter as I went to bed that night, and in the morning, when the bell rang, I thought of it immediately.
"Hello."
"Good-morning, Mr. Street. Eight o'clock," came the mellifluous cadences.
"Good-morning," I replied. "This is the last time you will call me, so I want to say good-by, and thank you. You and the other operator always say 'good-night' and 'good-morning' very pleasantly and I wish you to know I have appreciated it. And when you call me you always do so by name. That has pleased me too."
"Thank you," she said—and oh! the dulcet tone in which she spoke the words.
"How did you happen to know my name?" I asked.
"Oh," she replied—and seemed to hesitate for just an instant—"Mr. Woods has given us instructions always to call by name."