gone to all the trouble. Thank you so much." Then, turning in my direction, "How about one for you? Mother made it specially. Ahh . . this is delicious. Really terrific." He ate with a gusto, almost a rapture, which did not seem to be altogether play acting. I also spooned my bowl of jelly. It tasted watery, and when I came to the piece of fruit at the bottom, it was not fruit after all, but a substance I could not identify. I by no means despised their poverty. (At the time I didn't think that the jelly tasted bad, and I was really grateful for the old woman's kindness. It is true that I dread poverty, but I do not believe I ever have despised it.) The jelly and the way Horiki rejoiced over it taught me a lesson in the parsimoniousness of the city-dweller, and in what it is really like in a Tokyo household where the members divide their lives so sharply between what they do at home and what they do on the outside. I was filled with dismay at these signs that I, a fool rendered incapable by my perpetual flight from human society from distinguishing between "at home" and "on the outside," was the only one completely left out, that I had been deserted even by Horiki. I
should like to record that as I manipulated the peeling lacquer chopsticks to eat my jelly, I felt unbearably lonely. "I'm sorry, but I've got an appointment today," Horiki said, standing and putting on his jacket. "I'm going now. Sorry." At that moment a woman visitor arrived for Horiki. My fortunes thereby took a sudden turn. Horiki at once became quite animated. "Oh, I am sorry. I was just on my way to your place when this fellow dropped in without warning. No,
