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 All strength is selfish. It differs from weakness only in being a wiser and more far-sighted kind of selfishness. The weak are weak because they don't understand; they are like children who think an orange is bigger than the moon."

"But you are strong, Marthe," Grover ventured, "yet your life, at least on the surface, resembles the life of all the weak girls who ever lived."

She broke into her gay rabelaisian laugh, a laugh that always touched Grover because far beneath it he saw a well of despair. "I know that the moon is bigger than an orange, and far more important. I know it would be wise to reject the orange and reach up toward the heavens. But unfortunately I like oranges; I like the taste and color and feel of them. The moon is so remote, and I am so impatient. If I have a soul, it's asleep, and my body's wide awake. . . You are different. You spend half your time in the moon. Haven't I often told you so?"

"It's a dreary planet," said Grover.

"It sheds a lovely light."

The voice of the woman at the caisse had risen to a sharp pitch above the buzz of chatter about them. She was scolding a bedraggled youth who had just attempted to swagger out of the cafe. "Haven't I told you you couldn't have credit for another sou till you paid what you owe?" she was crying.

"Allo!" Marthe called out. "René!" and the harassed youth advanced hopefully.