He was plain, of insignificant appearance, he was ill and tastelessly dressed.

He stood there before the sixpenny-ha'penny mirror and drank the cup of humiliation.
"Calling my tie, indeed!" the office-boy muttered, his smouldering resentment bringing him back to the attack.

"Present from my best girl, that was, and she knows what's what.

Young lady with a place in a west-end milliner's shop, too.

If that doesn't mean good taste, I should like to know what does.