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calling cards from his pocket, picked out one of his own, and presented it to Honda. As he read it, the fastidious Honda could not help noticing that one corner of the card was slightly soiled and bent:
    T HE A CADEMY OF P ATRIOTISM
    S HIGEYUKI I INUMA
    H EADMASTER
    What startled him about Kiyoaki’s old tutor was his talkative and open manner, so unlike the Iinuma Honda remembered. Years before he had been quite different. As Honda looked more closely, he saw that some things about him were unchanged: the uncouth tuft of hair just visible at the neck of his kimono, his square shoulders, the dark, brooding eyes, with a tendency to waver. His outward bearing, however, was altogether different.
    “Forgive me for addressing you so familiarly!” said Iinuma, looking up from Honda’s card. “You certainly have attained eminence. The truth is, your fame came to my notice some time ago, but it seemed rude for someone like me to presume upon past acquaintance, so I restrained myself. Now that I look at you, you haven’t changed a bit. If the young master were alive, you would be his most trusted friend. Anyway, as I learned afterwards, you proved the depth of your friendship by what you did for him. Everyone said how wonderful you were.”
    As Honda listened, feeling as though he were being slightly mocked, it occurred to him that Iinuma would not speak so openly of Kiyoaki if he were aware of his young master’s reincarnation in his own son. Then again, possibly Iinuma’s apparent frankness was a means of seizing the initiative and warning Honda not to intrude into this mystery.
    Still, when Honda looked at Iinuma in his crested hakama and at young Isao standing behind him, he could only see everyday reality. Iinuma’s face was marked by the years and by the common tribulations. The smell of day-by-day existence was so strong that the wild thoughts that had pursued Honda from the dreams of the night before seemed no more than ephemeral fantasy. He began to wonder if even the moles he had seen on Isao’s side might have been no more than a trick of vision.
    Nevertheless, despite the urgency of the work that awaited him that evening, Honda found himself asking Iinuma: “How long will you be in the Kansai?”
    “I’m afraid I’ll be taking the train back to Tokyo tonight.”
    “That’s too bad.” After a moment’s thought, Honda made his decision. “What do you say to this? Before you leave tonight, won’t you and your son have dinner at my home? It’s a rare chance for us to have a leisurely talk.”
    “You do me too much honor. I couldn’t think of imposing myself and my son upon your hospitality.”
    Honda turned directly to Isao: “It will be my pleasure. You and your father must come. You’ll be returning to Tokyo on the same train, won’t you?”
    “Yes, sir,” answered Isao, somewhat inhibited by his father’s presence.
    Iinuma, however, now said that he would accept Honda’s kind invitation, and promised that, after attending to a few matters in Osaka, both of them would come to his home that evening.
    “Your son was superb yesterday in the kendo match. It’s really a pity that you couldn’t be there. It was a performance to take one’s breath away.” As he spoke, Honda looked from one to the other.
    Just then a lean but erect old man in Western clothes approached them. He was accompanied by an extremely attractive woman of about thirty.
    “General Kito and his daughter,” Iinuma whispered into Honda’s ear.
    “General Kito, you say? The poet?”
    “Yes, yes. That’s right.”
    Iinuma had become tense, and his hushed, respectful tone made Honda think of a courtier sent to prepare the way of a lord.
    Kensuké Kito was a retired major general of the Imperial Army, but his fame came from his poetry. Honda, urged by friends, had read his highly praised Hekiraku , a collection of poems that, according to critics, revived the bold spirit and style of the thirteenth-century poet Sanetomo. Such