"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.
"Well, one night, Auguste, the headwaiter—you remember him, he used to get smuggled cigarettes for us; that made him suspicious; always thought everybody was a spy—pointed out a man sitting just outside the room on one of the leather-covered seats. Auguste said he came every evening and got as close as he could to our table without attracting attention; close enough, however, to hear every word that was said. If I knew the man it was all right; if I didn't know him, he suggested that I keep an eye on him.