Here in
the morning hungry habitues take their first meal--those whose
life-tickets are punched with much knowledge of the world, and who,
therefore, know how much shorter is the distance from where they sit to
the chef's charcoal fire.
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.
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