He was a natural force, certainly, but beyond that, Wilson felt, he was not anything very really or for very long at a time.
Wilson glanced toward the fire, where Bartley's profile was still wreathed in cigar smoke that curled up more and more slowly.

His shoulders were sunk deep in the cushions and one hand hung large and passive over the arm of his chair.

He had slipped on a purple velvet smoking-coat.

His wife, Wilson surmised, had chosen it.

She was clearly very proud of his good looks and his fine color.