I earn a dollar a day and eat dinner--dinner, mind you!--at twelve o'clock, out of a tin pail.

You can see that I'm a laboring man--one of the toiling millions." "You don't mean that seriously, Mr.Thatcher; not really!" "Oh, why will you say that?
Every one says just that! No one ever believes that I mean what I say!" This was part of some joke, Marian surmised, though she did not quite grasp it.

It was inconceivable that the son of the house of Thatcher should seriously seek a chance to do manual labor.

Allen in his dinner jacket did not look like a laborer: he was far more her idea of a poet or a musician.
"I went to Lueders's house the other evening for supper," Allen was saying.

"I rather put it up to him to ask me, and he has a house with a garden, and his wife was most amusing.