“One can occupy oneself with it,” Ivor continued, “always and everywhere. Women are always wonderfully the same. Shapes vary a little, that’s all. In Spain”--with his free hand he described a series of ample curves--“one can’t pass them on the stairs. In England”--he put the tip of his forefinger against the tip of his thumb and, lowering his hand, drew out this circle into an imaginary cylinder--“In England they’re tubular. But their sentiments are always the same. At least, I’ve always found it so.” “I’m delighted to hear it,” said Mr. Scogan. CHAPTER XVI. The ladies had left the room and the port was circulating. Mr. Scogan filled his glass, passed on the decanter, and, leaning back in his chair, looked about him for a moment in silence. The conversation rippled idly round him, but he disregarded it; he was smiling at some private joke. Gombauld noticed his smile. “What’s amusing you?” he asked. “I was just looking at you all, sitting round this table,” said Mr. Scogan. “Are we as comic as all that?” “Not at all,” Mr. Scogan answered politely. “I was merely amused by my own speculations.” “And what were they?” “The idlest, the most academic of speculations. I was looking at you one by one and trying to imagine which of the first six Caesars you would each resemble, if you were given the opportunity of behaving like a Caesar. The Caesars are one of my touchstones,” Mr. Scogan explained. “They are characters functioning, so to speak, in the void. They are human beings developed to their logical conclusions. Hence their unequalled value as a touchstone, a standard. When I meet someone for the first time, I ask myself this question: Given the Caesarean environment, which of the Caesars would this person resemble--Julius, Augustus, Tiberius, Caligula, Claudius, Nero? I take each trait of character, each mental and emotional bias, each little oddity, and magnify them a thousand times. The resulting image gives me his Caesarean formula.” “And which of the Caesars do you resemble?” asked Gombauld.