“Certainly is,” said Mr Murphy.
“I understood we’re in for a cold winter,” commented the older of the two vice-presidents; he had been a commander in the navy.
“Nothing like a real old-fashioned Christmas,” said Mr Murphy in a smooth low voice. He was conscious of a difference in their voices. His own voice sounded rough to him while their voices were always smooth and almost British. He had noticed these differences before but there was nothing much he could do about them. In the front office he always felt less important because of this difference, and because of this and other things, too, he was made to feel an outsider.
The vice-presidents then talked in their cultured near-British voices about a certain college football game. Mr Murphy lay back in his red couch and wondered if perhaps he should drink more milk. That was good for ulcers; but nothing was good for cancer. He shuddered.
A few more vice-presidents and section heads came into the anteroom. They talked and laughed together and Oliver L. Murphy talked and laughed with them.
There was a buzz and everyone stopped talking. The receptionist looked up from her desk. “They’re ready,” she said.
The men walked into the boardroom of Heywood and Golden.
A long room, with indirect lighting, thick carpets, and a long table with armchairs around it: this was the boardroom. On the walls were charts of stocks and trends.
Mr Heywood was sitting at one end of the table and Mr Golden was sitting at the other end of the table. Murphy sat down on the left of Mr Heywood. This was his usual seat.
“Hello, Oliver,” said Mr Heywood cheerily.