Satherwaite, '02, threw his overcoat across the broad mahogany table,
regardless of the silver and cut-glass furnishings, shook the melting
snowflakes from his cap and tossed it atop the coat, half kicked, half
shoved a big leathern armchair up to the wide fireplace, dropped himself
into it, and stared moodily at the flames.
Satherwaite was troubled. In fact, he assured himself, drawing his handsome
features into a generous scowl, that he was, on this Christmas eve, the
most depressed and bored person in the length and breadth of New England.
Satherwaite was not used to being depressed, and boredom was a state
usually far remote from his experience; consequently, he took it worse.
With something between a groan and a growl, he drew a crumpled telegram
from his pocket. The telegram was at the bottom of it all. He read it
again: