She led him and sat him on a pallet bed. Then she closed the door, through which the moonlight was streaming. The room had no window. It was pitch dark, and he was trapped. So he felt as he sat there on the hard pallet. But she came instantly and sat by him and began softly, caressingly to rub his hair with a towel. Softly, slowly, caressingly she rubbed his hair with a towel. And in spite of himself, his arms, alive with a power of their own, went out and clasped her, drew her to him.
"I'm supposed to be in love with a girl," he said, really not speaking to her.
"Are you, dearie?" she said softly. And she left off rubbing his hair and softly put her mouth to his.
Later—he had no idea what time of the night it was—he went round looking for Tom. The place was mostly dark. The inn was half dark... Nobody seemed alive. But there was music somewhere. There was music.
As he went looking for it, he came face to face with Dr. Rackett.
"Where's Tom?" he asked.
"Best look in the barn."
The dim-lighted barn was a cloud of half-illuminated dust, in which figures moved. But the music was still martial and British. Jack, always tipsy, for he had drunk a good deal and it took effect slowly, deeply, felt something in him stir to this music. They were dancing a jig or a horn-pipe. The air was all old and dusty in the barn. There were four crosses of wooden swords on the floor. Young Patrick, in his shirt and trousers, had already left off dancing for Ireland, but the Scotchman, in a red flannel shirt and a reddish kilt, was still lustily springing and knocking his heels in a haze of dust. The Welshman was a little poor fellow in old shirt and trousers. But the Englishman, in costermonger outfit, black bell-bottom trousers and lots of pearl buttons, was going well. He was thin and wiry and very neat about the feet. Then he left off dancing, and stood to watch the last two.
Everybody was drunk, everybody was arguing, according to his nationality, as to who danced best. The Englishman in the bell-bottom trousers knew he danced best, but spent his last efforts deciding between Sandy and Taffy. The music jigged on. But whether it was British Grenadiers or Campbells Are Coming Jack didn't know. Only he suddenly felt intensely patriotic.
"I am an Englishman," he thought, with savage pride. "I am an Englishman. That is the best on earth. Australian is English, English, English, she'd collapse like a balloon but for the English in her. British means English first. I'm a Britisher, but I am an Englishman! God! I could crumple the universe in my fist, I could . . . I'm an Englishman, and I could crush everything in my hand. And the women are left behind. I'm an Englishman."