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 but it escaped him. Even the image is unattainable, he complained.

But just before he fell asleep it returned with striking clearness and suddenness, in the form of the expression of hardness he had noted when he first saw her and she had mistaken him for her brother. The softer, gentler, friendly expression refused to come back for him.

For several days, at dusk, he returned to the dingy Café International. Marthe was always in her corner, always tidy and fresh and shy. She arrived between five and six each afternoon, after breakfast, and left promptly at midnight.

It was a great comfort to talk to Marthe, a great comfort to know one person to whom one could confess one's darkest secrets without losing caste. The society of these outcasts solaced him. If he did not share their weaknesses, he at least shared with them the sense of being a misfit, coming in as he often did after many hours of toil before the easel he had set up in his bedroom.

His friendship with Marthe was delicate, yet clearly defined. Its peculiar nature was soon comprehended and respected by the habitués of the cafe. It had never occurred to him to speak to Marthe otherwise than he would have spoken to a lady, and it soon became apparent that Marthe had determined to keep him on