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Jim Bartholomew came back from the railway station with a heavy heart. He had declined Franks offer to drive him to the bank and had promised to go up to the house to dinner. It accentuated his gloom that Sanderson was in an exuberantly cheerful mood. To Jim's intense annoyance he hummed little snatches of song as he worked, and the sound penetrating through wood and glass partition had the character of a dirge.
"What the devil are you moaning about?" demanded Jim, exploding into his assistant's room.