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: "NEW COMPLICATIONS.
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.