“I’m asking for information. That’s the only way I can make the paper better. By finding out what people think of it.” “A(c)h, yes! There is much to commend in your paper. Much! But it is not always quite kindly, is it? Not quite kindly.” “Probably not. What have you got in mind?” “Nothing in particular,” disclaimed the banker. “I feel that in our complicated system there is room for all classes of thought, and that all of us who are, in a sense, leaders should set the example of a broad tolerance. The imputation of unworthy motives, for example, can do nothing but harm. A community such as this should be a brotherhood, all working for the common good of the town. Don’t you agree with me, Mr. Robson?” To agree with so pious a banality would have been easy; was, in fact, almost a requirement of politeness. But Jeremy was wondering what lay behind all these words. “I don’t know,” he said. “It sounds all right. But I don’t get your real meaning.” Mr. Wanser hastily disclaimed any real meaning, and the interview proceeded in a mist of steamy generalities contributed by the banker, of which one alone impressed the editor as embodying the kernel of a thought. “You may gain temporary circulation by making enemies, but you lose support.” “But a newspaper has got to take sides on public questions,” protested Jeremy. “Why so? Why should it not be a lens, to collect and focus facts for the public’s attention?” “It should, in the news columns. But editorially?” “Comment,” said Wanser blandly. “Simple, explanatory, enlightening comment.” “It won’t do the business. Take this tax matter--” “A(c)h! Very unfortunate! Very unfortunate!” murmured the banker. “Of course it’s unfortunate,” returned Jeremy warmly. “It’s unfortunate that those best able to pay taxes should get off light at the expense of those less able to pay.” “That is not what I meant. These attacks upon property--” “They’re not attacks on property, when property plays fair. Would a simple comment have brought old Madam Taylor to time?” “Perhaps. Why not?” Jeremy rubbed his nose thoughtfully. “Perhaps it would. The facts were enough just as they stood.” Madam Taylor, the daughter of the dead statesman who had founded The Guardian, was not only the richest woman in Fenchester, but was also a highly respected and considerably feared local institution. Because of that her taxes had not been raised in thirty years, though her property had quadrupled in value, until The Guardian shocked the community by running afoul of her. “You might have so enraged her that she would have left Fenchester forever,” accused Wanser. “Small loss, then,” returned Jeremy heatedly, he having been the victim of the old lady’s spiciest line of commentary, after publication of the article. “A(c)h! It would be a misfortune to the town,” said the banker, thinking, on his part, of the heavy balance in the name of Taylor at his bank.