Cheng might never notice me quietly sitting in a corner managing to get out as much as I can from Latin Prose Composition.  But we met in a dinner celebrating the very survival of the course at the end of semester, and were naturally surprised by each other’s unusual interest in Chinese stuff; she the labor issues and I the metaphysics. So it seemed logical that we often engage in discussions of various matters. She invited me to have tea or dinner in her apartment, and repeated the summons whenever I zigzagged my way through the train system coming to campus from my tiny shelter in Flushing.  

        Cheng was a fine Latinist and, without any preparation, shot almost full score on the law school admissions test in sophomore year, but there was nothing ostentatious about her except the confident consciousness of having a mind that moved like a deadly laser among the shams and delusions of our time. This rather awed and frightened me, for I had some romantic fancies of my own. I comforted my pride by wondering whether Cheng’s sharp and decisive thinking, despite her passion for learning and precision of language, had ever allowed her to feel the wisdom hiding in the social and moral traditions of the race. But this is ungracious of me after having accepted her tea. She walked with me on the riverside discussing Chinese politics; she confessed her aversion to New York City and also to ancient Greek. She was young, yet leading noble and desperate causes, and sometimes coming out of the bout with success; she was determined to dedicate her whole life to future China. I admired her as a miracle among women, a rising star among the very brilliant and promising, but – though I several times met her in friendly debate – I never knew her intimately enough to like her as I had come to like Kevin or Bin. I believe that Kevin was the deeper, subtler, kinder person.