"Stop talking nonsense, and let's get on with it. What else is missing? If we want our things back, we need to get our complaint in."
"A lot of good a complaint will do us now. I rather think you'd best explain this 'Otanchin Palaeologus' business."
"Give it a rest. I told you never to mind."
"Then never mind what else is missing."
"You're a numbskull. Do as you please then, but don't look to me to draft your complaint."
"Don't look to me to tell you what's missing. And it was your complaint. I don't care if you draft it or not."
"I won't then." With that the master, as he's wont to do, rises to his feet and heads for the study. The wife withdraws to the parlor and seats herself in front of her sewing box. For the next ten minutes, neither does anything but glower in silence at the shōji between them.
This is how things stand as Tatara Sanpei, purveyor of yams, makes a lively entrance. Tatara Sanpei was once a boarding student in this house, and he's now finished his law degree and taken a position in the mining division of a certain firm. As a budding industrialist, he's a younger version of Suzuki Tōjūrō. Sanpei still frequents his former teacher's humble abode, happy to while away a Sunday in idle conversation. He's a familiar face in the house.
"Mighty fine weather today, ma'am, wouldn't ya say?" Greeting the wife in his Karatsu dialect, or what whatever it is, he plops himself down in front of the her, one trousered knee drawn up.
"Is the master off somewhere?"
"No, he's in his study."