The narrow high street was thronged with voters.  Tall policemen stationed there had nothing to do.  The certainty of all, that they were going to win, seemed to keep everyone in good humour.  There was as yet no need to break anyone’s head, for though the sharpest lookout was kept for any signs of the philosophic eye, it was only to be found—­outside Courtier—­in the perambulators of babies, in one old man who rode a bicycle waveringly along the street and stopped to ask a policeman what was the matter in the town, and in two rather green-faced fellows who trundled barrows full of favours both blue and yellow.

But though Courtier eyed the ‘facts’ with such suspicion, the keenness of everyone about the business struck him as really splendid.  They went at it with a will.  Having looked forward to it for months, they were going to look back on it for months.  It was evidently a religious ceremony, summing up most high feelings; and this seemed to one who was himself a man of action, natural, perhaps pathetic, but certainly no matter for scorn.

It was already late in the afternoon when there came debouching into the high street a long string of sandwichmen, each bearing before and behind him a poster containing these words beautifully situated in large dark blue letters against a pale blue ground: 

“Newcomplications. 
Danger not past.
Vote for Miltoun and the government,
and save the Empire.”

Courtier stopped to look at them with peculiar indignation.  Not only did this poster tramp in again on his cherished convictions about Peace, but he saw in it something more than met the unphilosophic eye.  It symbolized for him all that was catch-penny in the national life-an epitaph on the grave of generosity, unutterably sad.  Yet from a Party point of view what could be more justifiable?  Was it not desperately important that every blue nerve should be strained that day to turn yellow nerves, if not blue, at all events green, before night fell?  Was it not perfectly true that the Empire could only be saved by voting blue?  Could they help a blue paper printing the words, ‘New complications,’ which he had read that morning?  No more than the yellows could help a yellow journal printing the words ‘Lord Miltoun’s Evening Adventure.’  Their only business was to win, ever fighting fair.  The yellows had not fought fair, they never did, and one of their most unfair tactics was the way they had of always accusing the blues of unfair fighting, an accusation truly ludicrous!  As for truth!  That which helped the world to be blue, was obviously true; that which didn’t, as obviously not.  There was no middle policy!  The man who saw things neither was a softy, and no proper citizen.  And as for giving the yellows credit for sincerity—­the yellows never gave them credit!  But though Courtier