It was starting to rain, but the men didn’t want to arrive at the party empty-handed. Ting-Yan, however, was anxious to get to the house because her mother, Siu-Wai, was already there helping Cheung’s wife, Yim-Fong, with the cooking. At least, that was what she said. Her eyes glittered with the anxious desire of one who loves too much without any certainty of being loved back. She wanted to see Tak-Wing.

“You go ahead, then,” said her father, pausing in front of a sweet potato seller. “I want to talk to Old Cheung anyway.”

“I’ll come with you,” said Tak-Tam.

Though they’d been peaceful and light together on the boat, now she cast him a look of scorn.

Tak-Tam didn’t notice, or pretended not to.

The two old fathers watched their children walk up the hill through the mist.

“Are you sure you want Ting-Yan to marry Tak-Wing?” said Lee. “I think that Ting-Yan and Tak-Tam would be just fine together.”

“Your daughter is a good woman. She should marry the man she loves. Besides, it’s a practical match. My number one son, Tak-Wing, is a little childish. She’ll have to take care of him. And I want him to be well taken care of.”

“To give your first son to a modest fishing family is to throw away your wealth.”

“My family is more humble than yours because we lost our village. Even if my old mother doesn’t think so. Whereas you made a fortune.”

“And lost it, Brother,” said Lee, a little sadly, but without bitterness. The ritual of humility was only meaningful if it was grounded in true feeling. Finally, he asked, “Do you truly wish this?”

“I do,” Cheung said. “Truly, my brother, I do.”

When they arrived, Lee handed the package of roasted sweet potatoes to Yim-Fong. “We lost the day’s catch. I’m sorry.”

“Never mind, plenty of food,” Yim-Fong said, though this wasn’t entirely true. Because of the war in China, she’d encountered shortages at the wet market.

“Is my daughter here?” Lee asked. “She came with Tak-Tam just ahead of us.”

Then they heard it: a soft, very high-pitched keening from the back room. Lee recognized the cry. It was his daughter, bawling her eyes out. He rushed to her, past the large round dining table where Cheung Tak-Wing sat beside a beaming Emily Mah Wai-Yee. Through the doorway Cheung could see Lee’s wife, Siu-Wai, sitting on the bed beside Ting-Yan, holding the girl as she howled out her grief and disappointment. Tak-Tam sat on the floor at her feet, gripping her clammy hand in his.

Cheung remained in the front room. “What is going on?”

“The fools eloped,” said Yim-Fong. “So shameful.”

“It was so easy,” said Tak-Wing. “We just went to the British magistrate at the Supreme Court across the road from your work. Done! Quick as an onion pancake.”

“What onion pancake?” said Cheung.