Ling Tang smiled. “Most mysterious, true,” he agreed.
“And if they wanted to give me a ring, why didn’t they just send it to me, instead of throwing it through my window and ruining the screen?”
“You did receive it in a most dramatic fashion.”
“You can bet all the tea in China I did,” Biff said.
“Perhaps, young man,” Ling said, “you received it as you did, so that he who presented it to you could keep his identity a secret. Even more important”—Ling paused to drive home his point—“he did it to keep you from seeing what he looked like.”
Biff and his father exchanged concerned glances.
“Were you acquainted with the House of Kwang? Did you know its master?” Mr. Brewster asked.
“It is an old, old family, once strong, once rich.” An expression of sadness passed fleetingly across Tang’s face. “Until the Reds moved in and made ruthless changes, the House of Kwang lived in the same age-old feudal manner as had the founder of the family generations ago. They had rich farm lands and houses of many courts. In the Old Lord’s house, he who was called the Ancient One, there were more than a hundred courts. In America you would call them apartments or suites. Each court had its sleeping room. A room for eating. And a room, beautifully decorated with a small fish pond in its center, where the lords of the house would go to think and meditate and honor the memories of their fathers and their fathers’ fathers.”
“And this no longer exists?” Mr. Brewster asked his friend.
“Gone. All gone. The farm lands divided up into small communes; the mines, the grain-storage house snatched away. But the family still clings together. They still resist. Many of them are in hiding from local Red officials. The earthly possessions of the House of Kwang have been torn from them. But the family is still a proud one. They aid one another, even to helping the older members escape into the free world.”