The Decay of the Angel - Yukio Mishima

“Just sit down there quietly, if you will.” An elegantly
sardonic smile on her lips, she pointed to the
somewhat worn Watteau garden party on the chair
Tōru had just vacated.
The butler announced dinner. Opening doors Tōru
had taken to be a wall, he ushered them into the next
room, where the table was set with red candles.
Keiko’s dress jingled.
Not one to encourage conversation, Tōru ate in
silence. The thought that the skill with which he
managed his knife and fork was the result of Honda’s
assiduous tutelage enraged him all over again.
Tutelage to make people think him a long-time adept
of a cravenness he had not known until he met Honda
and Keiko.
Keiko’s fingers at knife and fork, beyond the heavy
baroque candlesticks, absently quiet and diligent, like
an old woman at her knitting, were a young girl’s
fingers brought into old age.
The chilled turkey was tasteless, like the dry skin of
an old man. The chestnut stuffing and the cranberry
jelly had for Tōru the sourly saccharine taste of
hypocrisy.
“Do you know why you were so suddenly sought
after to become heir to the house of Honda?”
“How should I?”