On the day after the master dreamt of watercolors, the aesthete with the gold-rimmed glasses dropped by again for the first time in a while. "How's the painting going?" he asked first off on seating himself. The master replied with air of detachment. "I've taken your adviced and worked at sketching. You were right, it's opened my eyes to shapes, to subtle variations in color, to so much I'd never noticed. I suppose it's this long history of sketching that's brought Western art so far. Andrea del Sarto was quite correct." Making no mention of his journal entries, he reverted to praise of Andrea del Sarto. The aesthete chuckled. "Actually, that was all a bunch of rubbish." He scratched his head. "What was?" The master was yet unaware he'd been duped. "What was rubbish is this Andrea del Sarto you've been admiring. I concocted the whole story. I never imagined you'd fall for it so. Ha ha ha ha." He was overjoyed. As I listened to this exchange from the veranda, I couldn't help but anticipate the master's next journal entry. This aesthete was a fellow whose sole pleasure derived from trickery and nonsense stories. With no concern in the least for the mischief his Andrea del Sarto affair had worked on the master's sentiments, he triumphantly prattled on. "On occasion my jests are swallowed whole, and moments of great comical beauty arise. I love it when that happens. The other day I told a student how Nicholas Nickleby had advised Gibbon to publish his great life's work, The History of the French Revolution, in English rather than French. This student's retention is insane, and he repeated my story verbatim at the Japan Literary Society forum. It was hilarious. There must have been a hundred listeners in the audience, and all were enthralled. Here's another good one."