There was a long pause. Then, “What’s your name, zur?” I asked him.
“Mine?”
“Ay.”
“Mine,” said he, “is Luke—”
He stopped—and thoughtfully frowned. I waited; but he said no more.
“Doctor Luke?” I ventured.
“Well,” he drawled, “that will serve.”
Then I thought I must tell him what was in my heart to say. Why not? The wish was good, and his soft, melancholy voice irresistibly appealed to my raw and childish sympathies.
“I wisht, zur,” I whispered, looking down at my boots, through sheer embarrassment, “that you——”
My tongue failed me. I was left in a sad lurch. He was not like our folk—not like our folk, at all—and I could not freely speak my mind.