He asked if this was my number, brisk and strong and deep and sure, and as if he was used to everything there is.
"Is Miss Marjorie Mayhew there?" says he.
"Miss Marjorie Mayhew," says I, thoughtful. "Why, I dunno's I ever heard her front name."
"Whose front name?" says he.
"Why," says I, "Miss Mayhew's. That's who we're talking about, ain't it?"
"Oh," says he, "then there is a Miss Mayhew staying there?"
"No, sir," says I short, "there ain't. She's the Miss Mayhew—the one I mean—and anybody that's ever seen her would tell you the same thing."
He was still at that, just for a second. And when he spoke again, his voice had somehow got a little different—I couldn't tell how.
"I see," says he, "that you and I understand each other perfectly. May I speak to the Miss Mayhew?"