It was at Gump's--that most fascinating Oriental store--and having made a purchase which I wished them to deliver, I mentioned my name and address to the clerk who, however, seemed to have some difficulty in getting it correctly, setting me down at first as "Mr. Julius Sweet." When my companion chose to taunt me about that, dwelling with apparent delight upon the painfully evident fact that my name meant nothing to the clerk, I retorted: "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." "You mean in my case?" I asked, somewhat nervously. "In making all morning calls," she explained. "At night, when the night operator isn't busy, she takes the call list, gets the names of the people, and notes them down opposite the room numbers so that I can read them off, when I ring, in the morning. Mr. Woods says that it makes guests feel more at home." "It does," I assured her sadly. Then, in justice, I added: "Nevertheless you have a most agreeable voice." "It's very kind of you to speak of it," she returned. "Not at all," said I. "I am writing something about San Francisco, and I want to know your name so that I can mention you as the owner of the voice." "Oh," she said, "are you a writer?" "I am," I declared firmly. "And you're really going to mention me?" "I am if you will give me your name." "It's Lulu Maguire," she said. "Will you let me know when it comes out?" "I will," said I. "Thank you very much," she answered. "I hope you'll come again." "I hope so too." Then we said good-by. And though I cannot say of the angel-voiced Miss Maguire that she taught me about women, she did teach me something about writers, and something else about hotels. * * * * *