To my surprise he showed the greatest enthusiasm.  So much so that I ordered another pair of bran muffins, which I did not really want, so that he might have more time for reading Kenko.

“Who was this fellow?” he asked.

“He was a Jap,” I said, “lived a long time ago.  He was mighty thick with the Emperor, and after the Emperor died he went to live by himself in the country, and became a priest, and wrote down his thoughts.”

“I see,” said my friend.  “Just put down whatever came into his head, eh?”

“That’s it.  All his ideas about the queer things a fellow runs into in life, you know, little bits of philosophy.”

I was a little afraid of using that word “philosophy,” but I couldn’t think of anything else to say.  It struck my friend very pleasantly.

“That’s it,” he said, “philosophy.  Just as you say, now, he went off by himself and put things down the way they come to him.  Philosophy.  Sure.  Say, that’s a good kind of book.  I like that kind of thing.  I have a lot of books at home, you know.  I get home about nine o’clock, and I most always read a bit before I go to bed.”

How I yearned to know what books they were, but it seemed rude to question him.

He dipped into Kenko again, and I wondered whether courtesy demanded that I should order another pot of tea.

“Say, would you like to do me a favor?”

“Sure thing,” I said.

“When you get through with that book, pass it over, will you?  That’s the kind of thing I’ve been wanting.  Just some little thoughts, you know, something short.  I’ve got a lot of books at home.”

His big florid face gleamed with friendly earnestness.

“Sure thing,” I said.  “Just as soon as I’ve finished it you shall have it.”  I wanted to ask whether he would reciprocate by lending me one of his own books, which would give me some clue to his tastes; but again I felt obscurely that he would not understand my curiosity.

As I went out he called to me again from where he stood by the shining coffee boiler.  “Don’t forget, will you?” he said.  “When you’re through, just pass it over.”

I promised faithfully, and tomorrow evening I shall take the book in to him.  I honestly hope he’ll enjoy it.  I walked up the bright wintry street, and wondered what Kenko would have said to the endless flow of taxicabs, the elevators and subways, the telephones, and telegraph offices, the newsstands and especially the plate-glass windows of florists.  He would have had some urbane, cynical and delightfully disillusioning remarks to offer.  And, as Mr. Weaver so shrewdly says, how he would enjoy “The Way of All Flesh!”

I came back to Hallbedroom street, and set down these few meditations.  There is much more I would like to say, but the partitions in hall bedrooms are thin, and the lady in the next room thumps on the wall if I keep the typewriter going after ten o’clock.