“Never breathe his name to me again, or we part.”
“Very well,” he said. “I thought as much. He has got his deserts.”
“_Has_ he?”
I glared at him one moment, then turned and sped on--up the street of
the Giant, passing the north flank of the palace, where sentries stood
on guard, and so into an open piazza, the Largho S. Ferdinando, into
which the palace itself stuck a shoulder, and where were churches and
the flaring portico of a theatre, and other buildings strangely fine
in their contiguity to the slums we had left.
And here, amidst the wild drift and gabble of a throng less foul but
as aimless, we plunged and were absorbed, and stood together again to
breathe.
All Naples, it seemed, was bent on shouting down its brother.
“What next?” bawled Gogo in my ear.
A handsome inn, the “Orient,” stood comparatively quiet and isolated
in an odd corner of the _Place_.
“Rooms--there!” I answered.
“Its exclusiveness makes it prominent,” boomed Gogo, with as much
dryness as he could put into a roar.