Marny has one of these same ragged life-tickets bearing punch-marks made the world over, and so whenever I journey his way we always breakfast together in this cool, restful retreat, especially of a Sunday morning.
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."