He turned on the threshold and looked into the shadowy room, dimly lit with its cheap lamp.

He kissed his hands to Ruth.
"My dear Isaac," he declared, lightly, "you are talking like an ass.
I have two shillings and a penny ha'penny in my pocket, which has to last me till Saturday, and I earn my twenty-eight shillings a week in old Weatherley's counting-house as honestly as you earn your wage by thundering from Labor platforms and articles in the _Clarion_.

My clothes are part of the livery of civilization.

The journalist who reports a Lord Mayor's dinner has to wear them.

Some day, when you've got your seat in Parliament, you'll wear them yourself.