"I—I didn't receive it," said Paul, at his wits' end.
"Don't prevaricate with me, sir; you know well enough it was intended for you. Have the goodness to read it now, and tell me what you have to say for yourself!"
Paul read it. It was a silly little school-girl note, half slang and half sentiment, signed only with the initials C.D. "Well, sir?" said the Doctor.
"It's very forward and improper—very," said Paul; "but it's not my fault—I can't help it. I gave the girl no encouragement. I never saw her before in all my life!"
"To my own knowledge, Bultitude, she has sat in that pew regularly for a year."
"Very probably," said Paul, "but I don't notice these matters. I'm past that sort of thing, my dear sir."
"What is her name? Come, sir, you know that."
"Connie Davenant," said Paul, taken unawares by the suddenness of the question. "At least, I—I heard so to-day." He felt the imprudence of such an admission as soon as he had made it.
"Very odd that you know her name if you never noticed her before," said the Doctor.
"That young fellow—what's-his-name—Jolland told me," said Paul.