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.)
In fine, he perceived from Mr Myson's eyes that his position was unique.
And after they had chatted a little, and the conversation had deviated
momentarily from journalism to house property, he offered to display
Machin House (as he had christened it) to Mr Myson, and Mr Myson was
really impressed beyond the ordinary.
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