Captain Paget had sunk very low in the world when he took possession of that wretched parlour and laid himself down to rest on the widow's flock-bed.
There is apt to be a dreary interval in the life of such a man--a blank dismal interregnum, which divides the day in which he spends his last shilling from the hour in which he begins to prey deliberately upon the purses of other people.

It was in that hopeless interval that Horatio Paget established himself in the widow's parlour.

But though he slept in the Old Kent-road, he had not yet brought himself to endure existence on that Surrey side of the water.

He emerged from his lodging every morning to hasten westward, resplendent in clean linen and exquisitely-fitting gloves, and unquestionable overcoat, and varnished boots.
The wardrobe has its Indian summer; and the glory of a first-rate tailor's coat is like the splendour of a tropical sun--it is glorious to the last, and sinks in a moment.

Captain Paget's wardrobe was in its Indian summer in these days; and when he felt how fatally near the Bond-street pavement was to the soles of his feet, he could not refrain from a fond admiration of the boots that were so beautiful in decay.
He walked the West-end for many weary hours every day during this period of his decadence.