After I returned home, my landlord came and offered to make me tea. I thought he was treating me, but instead he brewed my tea and joined me in drinking it. Maybe he would like to "make me tea" while I was away too and enjoy it by himself. He explained to me that he loved paintings, calligraphy, and antiques, so he had finally decided to go into the business of buying and selling. Judging by my looks, he said, I must surely be a fellow connoisseur. He then put forth the absurd suggestion that I begin collecting as a pastime. Several years ago I'd gone on an errand to the Imperial Hotel and been mistaken for a locksmith. And a rickshaw driver once addressed me as “sir” as I was viewing the great Buddha at Kamakura wrapped in a blanket. I've been mistaken many times for many things, but no one has ever accosted me as a connoisseur. The fact that I'm not one is clear from my dress and appearance. A connoisseur, as one knows from paintings, wears a hood or carries strips of poetry parchment. This man must be a first-rate scoundrel to make such a statement with a straight face. I told him I had absolutely no interest in a pastime pursued by retired old men. He laughed this off as he deftly helped himself to more of my tea, and he added that of course collecting takes a while to grow on one, but once you start you'll find yourself hooked. I had asked him the evening before to buy me tea, but this stuff was horribly strong and bitter. One cup was enough to turn my stomach. I told him next time I wanted something less bitter, and he nodded his assent while pressing out yet another cup for himself. He seemed determined to drink as much of another man's tea as he could. After he left I prepared for the next day's lessons and went straight to bed.