My fascination on this occasion with Buemon, the master, the wife, and Miss Yukie stems not simply from the fact that an external affair has intruded on their routines and set them all abuzz. What fascinates me more is how the same affair reverberates with unique timbre through each unique individual. Let's start with the master. He's more or less indifferent to the whole thing. However strict Buemon's father may be, or however much Buemon's mother may shun him as a stepchild, is not the master's concern. Why should he be concerned? There's a world of difference between Buemon's expulsion and any threat to his own position. Should the school's thousand students all be expelled, then yes, his continued livelihood as an instructor would surely come into question, but the particular fate of one Furui Buemon, whatever it might be, has little connection to the master's daily bread. Where connections are weak, empathy is in short supply. There's no reason whatsoever to knit one's brows, sob and sniffle, or sigh and lament over the plight of a relative stranger. Human beings are by no means such compassionate or sympathetic creatures. That being said, they are social creatures, and being such they're required at times to shed a supporting tear or don a façade of commiseration. These crocodile tears, as they're often called, come only with practice and effort, and those who master this charade best are esteemed as caring and conscientious citizens. It follows then that the most esteemed of men are also the most deceitful. Observation confirms this time and again. The master, in contrast, numbers among the clumsy and inept. Being clumsy and inept, he garners no esteem. Garnering no esteem, he's blatantly candid, making no endeavor to mask his cool indifference. His detached and repeated "We'll have to see ..." in response to Buemon's angst is an honest manifestation of his inner indifference. I would caution against finding fault with the master, a man of honest virtue, on account of his indifference. Indifference is man's natural state, and it's the honest man who wears it on his sleeve. To expect any more of a man is to credit his race too highly. Even honesty is in short supply. Until the eight warriors of Bakin's novel, Shino and Kobungo and the like, leap from its pages and populate the neighborhood, expecting anything more than basic honesty is expecting far too much.