“We don’t even know each other’s names,” she remarked with a descent to matters of fact.
“Yours is the prettiest name in the world.”
“How do you know?”
“It must be—anyhow.”
“It is rather pretty you know—it’s Christabel.”
“What did I tell you?”
“And yours?”
“Poorer than I deserve. It’s Alfred.”
“I can’t call you Alfred.”
“Well, Polly.”