"Not exactly—I'm afraid I have not met any Australians except the troops."
"And what do you think of them? I'm rather interested, and like other people's views."
"You're not super-sensitive, I hope," he remarked, "because some of your fellows seem to be awfully touchy."
"Many Australians are; I'm not, now go on."
"Well, I like your men for their wonderful physique. They are as tough as the oldest soldiers. But they're not very respectful, you know. I mean, they don't salute; they stalk past with an air of equality and even contempt. That's a bad sign in a soldier."
"Yes?" said Sybil, daintily lighting a neat cigarette and settling down in her cosy chair.
"The officers, I hear, are excellent leaders, but, somehow, they don't quite look the part—sort of mixed, don't you know. Somehow, their build and clothes don't give them that distinctive touch which is the hall-mark of the British officer. I suppose it's really a question of breeding. They say in England it takes five generations to turn out a gentleman. Americans seem the same as Australians. In fact, I've read that all young and democratic countries are alike. Don't misunderstand me, I'm not saying they are not gentlemen. The life, I suppose, knocks off the fine points."
"I see," said Sybil, turning her face towards him. "Then your conception of a leader is a thin-waisted, well-corseted man, all hair wash and side—a most perfect and arrogant dandy. I can't believe that the tailor, manicurist and barber produce the leader. And you say that our boys have not the fine touch about them. Do you think that really counts in war? I think a Tommy wants a man to lead him whether he looks a Caesar or Bill Sikes. You really infer that the Australian blood is coarse and unrefined. Is that so, Mr. Jones?"
"Not exactly. But look over there. See these two Australian officers. They seem ungainly in their clothes, and, apparently, feel awkward and ill at ease in this show. They don't respect the polite conventions of Society, and would turn the place into a sort of cowboy saloon if left alone."
"What nonsense, Mr. Jones. And if I didn't feel that there was a hope of you knowing us better, I would leave you. What I think you are suffering from is the conservatism of the Britisher, a truly appalling defect, as well as a lack of perception. I grant you that our Australian tailors are absolutely the limit in turning out a man. Still, I believe a man can die as gallantly in a flour sack as in a Bond Street khaki suit. You say they seem ill at ease, and don't lounge in their chairs as if to the manner born. You don't realise that these men are men of action. Their life is spent in a hustling way. They are workers, not idlers. Anything suggestive of luxurious ease is interpreted by them as effeminate."