On one of these mornings, the first course had been brought and eaten, the cucumbers and a' special mysterious dish served, and I was about to light a cigarette--we were entirely alone--when a well-dressed man pushed open the door, leaned for a moment against the jamb, peered into the room, retreated, appeared again, caught sight of Marny, and settled himself in a chair with his eyes on the painter. I wondered if he were a friend of Marny's, or whether he had only been attracted by that glow of geniality which seems to radiate from Marny's pores. The intruder differed but little in his manner of approach from other strangers I had seen hovering about my friend, but to make sure of his identity--the painter had not yet noticed the man--I sent Marny a Marconi message of inquiry with my eyebrows, which he answered in the negative with his shoulders. The stranger must have read its meaning, for he rose quickly, and, with an embarrassed look on his face, left the room. "Wanted a quarter, perhaps," I suggested, laughing. "No, guess not. He's just a Diffendorfer. Always some of them round Sunday mornings. That's a new one, never saw him before. In town over night, perhaps." "What's a Diffendorfer?" "Did you never meet one?" "No, never heard of one." "Oh, yes, you have; you've seen lots of them." "Do they belong to any sect?" "No." "What are they, then?" "Just Diffendorfers. Thought I'd told you about one whom I knew. No? Wait till I light my cigar; it's a long story." "Anything to do with the fellow who's just gone out?" "Not a thing, though I'm sure he's one of them. You'll find Diffendorfers everywhere. First one I struck was in Venice, some years ago. I can pick them out now at sight." Marny struck a match and lighted his cigar. I drew my cup of coffee toward me and settled myself in my chair to listen. "You remember that little smoking-room to the right as you enter the Caffè Quadri," he began; "the one off the piazza? Well, a lot of us fellows used to dine there--Whistler, Rico, Old Ziem, Roscoff, Fildes, Blaas, and the rest of the gang. "Jimmy was making his marvellous pastels that year" (it is in this irreverent way that Marny often speaks of the gods), "and we used to crowd into the little room every night to look them over. We were an enthusiastic lot of Bohemians, each one with an opinion of his own about any subject he happened to be interested in, and ready to back it up if it took all night. Whistler's pastels, however, took the wind out of some of us who thought we could paint, especially Roscoff, who prided himself on his pastels, and who has never forgiven Jimmy to this day.