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
Caffe 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.
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