whole life up in housekeeping, I wouldn't keep house at all; I'd sleep under a hedge. Same with a country and politics. I'd rather have no country than be gulfed in politics and social stuff. I'd rather have the moon for a motherland."
Jaz was silent for a time, contemplating his knuckles.
"And that," he said, "is how the big majority of Australians feel, and that's why they care nothing about Australia. It's cruel to the country."
"Anyhow, no sort of politics will help the country," said Somers.
"If it won't, then nothing will," retorted Jaz.
"So you'd advise us all to be like seven-tenths of us here, not care a blooming hang about anything except your dinner and which horse gets in?" asked Jack, not without sarcasm.
Now Richard was silent, driven into a corner.
"Why," he said, "there's just this difference. The bulk of Australians don't care about Australia—that is, you say they don't. And why don't they? Because they care about nothing at all, neither in earth below or heaven above. They just blankly don't care about anything, and they live in defiance, a sort of slovenly defiance of care of any sort, human or inhuman, good or bad. If they've got one belief left, now the war's safely over, it's a dull, rock-bottom belief in obstinately not caring, not caring about anything. It seems to me they think it manly, the only manliness, not to care, not to think, not to attend to life at all, but just to tramp blankly on from moment to moment, and over the edge of death without caring a straw. The final manliness."
The other two men listened in silence, the distant, colonial silence that hears the voice of the old country passionately speaking against them.
"But if they're not to care about politics, what are they to care about?" asked Jaz, in his small, insinuating voice.
There was a moment's pause. Then Jack added his question:
"Do you yourself really care about anything, Mr Somers?"
Richard turned and looked him for a moment in the
