"I have only just found out your name, Mr. McTodd," she said at length.
Psmith nodded. "It is always thus," he said. "Passing through this life, we meet a fellow-mortal, chat awhile, and part; and the last thing we think of doing is to ask him in a manly and direct way what his label is. There is something oddly furtive and shamefaced in one's attitude towards people's names. It is as if we shrank from probing some hideous secret. We say to ourselves, 'This pleasant stranger may be a Snooks or a Buggins. Better not inquire.'"
(from Leave It To Psmith, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)
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