Strolling out into the High
Street he began observing the humours of the day. The bloom of political
belief had long been brushed off the wings of one who had so flown the
world's winds. He had seen too much of more vivid colours to be capable
now of venerating greatly the dull and dubious tints of blue and yellow.
They left him feeling extremely philosophic. Yet it was impossible to
get away from them, for the very world that day seemed blue and yellow,
nor did the third colour of red adopted by both sides afford any clear
assurance that either could see virtue in the other; rather, it seemed
to symbolize the desire of each to have his enemy's blood. But Courtier
soon observed by the looks cast at his own detached, and perhaps
sarcastic, face, that even more hateful to either side than its
antagonist, was the philosophic eye. Unanimous was the longing to
heave half a brick at it whenever it showed itself. With its d---d
impartiality, its habit of looking through the integument of things to
see if there might be anything inside, he felt that they regarded it as
the real adversary--the eternal foe to all the little fat 'facts,' who,
dressed up in blue and yellow, were swaggering and staggering, calling
each other names, wiping each other's eyes, blooding each other's noses.
To these little solemn delicious creatures, all front and no behind, the
philosophic eye, with its habit of looking round the corner, was clearly
detestable.
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