"She was only in love once," said Mr. Ericson, "and that had to be with an idiot who was always writing sonnets."
"A poet," said Don. "There used to be a lot of poets."
"But not in my life," said Mr. Ericson.
"Maybe," Don said, "your daughter expected a little bit too much from Mars."
"Don," Mrs. Ericson pleaded, "maybe you can do something."
"I'll be glad to try," Don said.
So Madeleine lay there and waited for Don, the perfect host, who could supply everyone at Martian Haven with whatever was necessary to insure a pleasant day.
Later, though she did not turn or make any sign of noticing, she knew he had entered the room and was standing over her. She could see the periphery of his giant shadow projected by moonlight over the colored glass.
"Madeleine—we've got a date for the ritual tonight."
"That's odd, Don. I don't remember it."