Even in the daytime the light in the room is subdued, for the low
eaves of the slanting roof admit but few of the sun's rays.
Everything is sober in tint from the ceiling to the floor; the guests
themselves have carefully chosen garments of unobtrusive colors.
The mellowness of age is over all, everything suggestive of
recent acquirement being tabooed save only the one note of
contrast furnished by the bamboo dipper and the linen napkin,
both immaculately white and new. However faded the tea-room
and the tea-equipage may seem, everything is absolutely clean.
Not a particle of dust will be found in the darkest corner, for if
any exists the host is not a tea-master. One of the first requisites
of a tea-master is the knowledge of how to sweep, clean, and
wash, for there is an art in cleaning and dusting. A piece of
antique metal work must not be attacked with the unscrupulous
zeal of the Dutch housewife. Dripping water from a flower
vase need not be wiped away, for it may be suggestive of dew
and coolness.

In this connection there is a story of Rikiu which well illustrates
the ideas of cleanliness entertained by the tea-masters. Rikiu was
watching his son Shoan as he swept and watered the garden path.
"Not clean enough," said Rikiu, when Shoan had finished his task,
and bade him try again. After a weary hour the son turned to
Rikiu: "Father, there is nothing more to be done. The steps have
been washed for the third time, the stone lanterns and the trees are
well sprinkled with water, moss and lichens are shining with a fresh
verdure; not a twig, not a leaf have I left on the ground." "Young
fool," chided the tea-master, "that is not the way a garden path
should be swept." Saying this, Rikiu stepped into the garden,