"Where will you spend the night?" he asked. This question brought a deep sigh from my lips as I contemplated the monotony of spending the night alone in a strange city. I could just picture in my mind how it would be -- the maid who served my dinner would doze off with the rice paddle in her hand. The desk clerk would surely be full of cynical and meaningless flattery, and yet, as soon as I left my room to go to the bath, the clerk and maids would watch my every move with suspicion, convinced, no doubt, that I was about to steal everything in sight. And worst of all would be that the instant I finished eating my dinner, the maid would take away the bright reading lamp and replace it with a dim night light, bid me good-night, and go off leaving me in semi-darkness. It is not my custom to sleep early, and it is quite impossible to describe the feeling of dismay I experienced at the thought of being abandoned like that in a dimly lit room. It is even worse at this time of year when the nights are so long. Ever since leaving Tokyo I had been preoccupied with the thought of how I would make it through the dreary night. The priest's question about where I would spend the night brought all this to mind once again, and I asked the priest if he would mind sharing a room with me.