His mode of entering the dining-room varied not with the passing of the years.

Appearing at the door, he cast a frightened look at the occupants who had preceded him, and in whose faces he could imagine nothing but critical censure of his own person.
Becoming aware of his hat, he made a dive and hung it up.

Then he trod timidly through the door, with a certain side-draught in his step, yet withal an acceleration of speed which presently brought him almost at a run to his corner of refuge, where he dropped, red and with a gulp.
Often he mopped his brow with the unwonted napkin, but discovery in this act by the stern eye of Nora, the head waitress, caused him much agony and a sudden search for a handkerchief.

When Nora stood at his chair, and repeated to him frostily the menu of the day, all the world went round to Sam, and he gained no idea of what was offered him.

With much effort at nonchalance, he would again wipe his face, take up his fork for twiddling, and say always the same thing.
"Oh, I ain't very hungry; jes' bring me a little pie an' beef an' coffee." And Nora, scornfully ignoring all this, then departed and brought him many things, setting them in array about his plate, and enabling him to eat as really he wished.