"No—I whisper 'em. But no man can pray to anybody but his Maker. So it's cruel difficult."
"Who is it you'm fretting to speak to, then? Be you shamed to do it? Be it an uncomely thing?"
"No, no—'tis a very every-day thing; and yet not that—'tis a—— Would I say anything to you that weren't comely?"
"To me?"
"To you—yes."
"Whatever should you have to say to me?"
"Things as I haven't got the language for. There's words—like 'marriage,' for instance—that be an awful mouthful to spit out. Worse than having a tooth drawed. Yet there's no other word for it."
"And what's the hard word you can't bring yourself to say?"
"Look here—listen. There are some things that I can say, and they'll do for a start. I'm a terrible poor man. I've only got fifty pound stored up, but it goodies and it will be fifty-four ten by next March. I get twenty-five shillings a week; and that's very tidy indeed for me. Yet I'm worth it—not to despise myself—and I've great hopes of getting up higher. You'll think I'm a very own-self man, to keep on about myself so much."
"Not at all. 'Tis cruel interesting."