The Partnership Read Free Page A

the morning. Her face brightened, however, as she heard sounds of the Dyson car approaching the back gate and coming to rest in the garage.
    â€œAh, there’s Wilfred,” said her father comfortably. His gaze wandered to the table. “Now he can have his supper.”
    Eric, spurred to action, rose and recommenced his struggles with the joint. The back gateclanged, there was a sound of whistling, and shortly afterwards Wilfred entered the room.
    Neither of Herbert Dyson’s sons had the forceful and determined personality which characterized their father, and though Wilfred had many good features and was a young man for whose moral energy it was impossible to feel anything but respect, he was neither handsome nor distinguished in appearance. His dark hair and fine dark eyes, his well-marked eyebrows and olive skin, his white teeth and well-knit figure, were suitable ingredients for a hero of romance; but they were irretrievably spoiled for that rôle by an expression of invincible homeliness and sound common sense. He had a wide but pleasing smile, which showed his gums too much but made one like the fellow, and he spoke in kindly, downright but decidedly Yorkshire tones. (Eric’s accent was equally broad; it was in both cases the fruit of an upbringing conducted by housekeepers.)
    â€œGood evening, everybody,” he announced in an imitation of the wireless tone.
    â€œGood evening, Wilfred,” responded the Reverend Charles with sonorous urbanity.
    â€œYou’ve been a long time, Wilfred,” said Mrs. Mellor with a self-accusing inflexion.
    â€œThat’s all right, Aunt Louise,” replied Wilfred cheerfully. “It’s given me an appetite. I had to take her to Mirfield to get the connection—we’d missed it here.”
    â€œDid ye catch it?” asked his father in the detached tone he was wont to use to his elder son.
    â€œOh yes, easily,” replied Wilfred. “Here! Get out of the way!” he pursued in a jovial brotherly tone to Eric, elbowing him aside and taking up the carving-knife. “I shall get nothing to eat till breakfast-time if you go on at that rate. What about Lydia? Some more, Lydia? Let me cut you just a little bit? There’s a nice bit here.”
    Lydia, somewhat to her own surprise, discovered an appetite and accepted; and the two settled down to a cheerful meal.
    â€œYou haven’t got the wireless on, father,” commented Wilfred, passing Lydia the butter.
    His father, who was no great lover of that form of entertainment, grunted non-committally.
    â€œThere’s nothing special on to-night, is there?” he inquired sourly.
    â€œOh, I don’t know,” said Wilfred. “There’s always something. Look at the programme, Eric. Would you like to have it on, Uncle Charles?”
    â€œI should indeed,” boomed Mr. Mellor with childish pleasure. His eyes sparkled, and he sat up eagerly. “Read out what it says in the book of words, Eric.”
    As Eric seemed to have difficulty in finding the proper page, his brother made a long arm and took the booklet from him.
    â€œDon’t let’s have anything gloomy, Wilfred, even if it
is
a long way off,” put in Mr. Dyson dryly.
    â€œNow, father!” protested Wilfred between mouthfuls, turning over the pages. “You knowyou’re as keen as anybody about trying new stations.”
    His father exclaimed “Ha! Am I?” with an ironic intention, but offered no further protest as Wilfred, having selected a programme, made the necessary adjustments and flooded the room with sound.
    â€œSplendid! Splendid!” cried the Reverend Charles enthusiastically, trying to beat time with one plump white hand. “Pity we didn’t think of having it sooner, Herbert.”
    â€œOh, we always need Wilfred to set us right,” observed his father in a peculiar tone.
    Mr. Mellor gave him a flashing look, but decided, as he had so often