While he was finishing dressing it came to me that his clothes had undergone much the same change as his dwelling.

In his golden days in London he had been a good deal of a dandy; he usually wore white waistcoats at night; was particular about the flowers in his buttonhole, his gloves and cane.

Now he was decently dressed and that was all; as far below the average as he had been above it.

Clearly, he had let go of himself and no longer took pleasure in the vanities: it seemed to me a bad sign.
I had always thought of him as very healthy, likely to live till sixty or seventy; but he had no longer any hold on himself and that depressed me; some spring of life seemed broken in him.

Bosie Douglas' second betrayal had been the _coup de grace_.
In the carriage he was preoccupied, out of sorts, and immediately began to apologise.
"I shall be poor company, Frank," he warned me with quivering lips.
The fragrant summer air in the Champs Elysees seemed to revive him a little, but he was evidently lost in bitter reflections and scarcely noticed where he was going.