But Mr Myson was not hunting for advertisements, and Denry soon saw him to be the kind of man who would be likely to depute that work to others.  Of middle height, well and quietly dressed, with a sober, assured deportment, he spoke in a voice and accent that were not of the Five Towns; they were superior to the Five Towns.  And in fact Mr Myson originated in Manchester and had seen London.  He was not provincial, and he beheld the Five Towns as part of the provinces; which no native of the Five Towns ever succeeds in doing.  Nevertheless, his manner to Denry was the summit of easy and yet deferential politeness.

He asked permission “to put something before” Denry.  And when, rather taken aback by such smooth phrases, Denry had graciously accorded the permission, he gave a brief history of the Five Towns Weekly, showing how its circulation had grown, and definitely stating that at that moment it was yielding a profit.  Then he said: 

“Now my scheme is to turn it into a daily.”

“Very good notion,” said Denry, instinctively.

“I’m glad you think so,” said Mr Myson.  “Because I’ve come here in the hope of getting your assistance.  I’m a stranger to the district, and I want the co-operation of some one who isn’t.  So I’ve come to you.  I need money, of course, though I have myself what most people would consider sufficient capital.  But what I need more than money is—­well—­moral support.”

“And who put you on to me?” asked Denry.

Mr Myson smiled.  “I put myself on to you,” said he.  “I think I may say I’ve got my bearings in the Five Towns, after over a year’s journalism in it, and it appeared to me that you were the best man I could approach.  I always believe in flying high.”

Therein was Denry flattered.  The visit seemed to him to seal his position in the district in a way in which his election to the Bursley Town Council had failed to do.  He had been somehow disappointed with that election.  He had desired to display his interest in the serious welfare of the town, and to answer his opponent’s arguments with better ones.  But the burgesses of his ward appeared to have no passionate love of logic.  They just cried “Good old Denry!” and elected him—­with a majority of only forty-one votes.  He had expected to feel a different Denry when he could put “Councillor” before his name.  It was not so.  He had been solemnly in the mayoral procession to church, he had attended meetings of the council, he had been nominated to the Watch Committee.  But he was still precisely the same Denry, though the youngest member of the council.  But now he was being recognised from the outside.  Mr Myson’s keen Manchester eye, ranging over the quarter of a million inhabitants of the Five Towns in search of a representative individual force, had settled on Denry Machin.  Yes, he was flattered.  Mr Myson’s choice threw a rose-light on all Denry’s career:  his wealth and its origin; his house and stable, which were the astonishment and the admiration of the town; his Universal Thrift Club; yea, and his councillorship!  After all, these were marvels. (And possibly the greatest marvel was the resigned presence of his mother in that wondrous house, and the fact that she consented to employ Rose Chudd, the incomparable Sappho of charwomen, for three hours every day.)