He was something of a favourite in society.

His wit consisted in discovering droll connections between incongruous ideas; and when talking in that strain he sat well forward of his seat, with his left hand raised, as if exhibiting his funny demonstrations between the thumb and forefinger, while his round and clean-shaven face wore an expression of merry perplexity.
But there was no trace of merriment or perplexity in the way he looked at Mr Verloc.

Lying far back in the deep arm-chair, with squarely spread elbows, and throwing one leg over a thick knee, he had with his smooth and rosy countenance the air of a preternaturally thriving baby that will not stand nonsense from anybody.
"You understand French, I suppose ?" he said.
Mr Verloc stated huskily that he did.

His whole vast bulk had a forward inclination.

He stood on the carpet in the middle of the room, clutching his hat and stick in one hand; the other hung lifelessly by his side.