-day anyhow."

"Why?"

"Well, I believe Gilda Mai is going to bring a _causa_ against Viviano.
Of course he won't marry her, and she never expected he could. Why, she
used to be a milliner in the Toledo. I remember it perfectly, and now
Sigismondo--But it's really Gilda that has made papa angry. You see, he
has paid twice for me, once four thousand lire, and the other time three
thousand five hundred. And then he has lost a lot at Lotto lately. He
has no luck. And then he, too, was in a row yesterday evening."

"The Marchese?"

"Yes, in the Chiaia. He slapped Signora Merani's face twice before every
one."

"Diavolo! What! a lady?"

"Well, if you like to call her so," returned Doro, negligently. "Her
husband is an impiegato of the Post-office, or something of the kind."

"But why should the Marchese slap her face in the Chiaia?"

"Because she provoked him. They took a flat in the house my father owns
in the Strada Chiatamone. After a time they got behind with the rent. He
let them stay on for six months without paying, and then he turned them
out. What should he do?" Doro began to gesticulate. He held his right
hand up on a level with his face, with the fingers all drawn together
and pressed against the thumb, and moved it violently backwards and
forwards, bringing it close to the bridge of his nose, then throwing
it out towards Artois. "What else, I say? Was he to give his beautiful
rooms to them for nothing? And she with a face like--have you, I ask
you, Emilio, have you seen her teeth?"

"I have never seen the Signora in my life!"

"You have never seen her teeth? Dio Mio!" He opened his two hands, and,
lifting his arms, shook them loosely above his head, shutting his eyes
for an instant as if to ward off some dreadful vision. "They are like
the keys of a piano from Bordicelli's! Basta!" He dropped his hands
and opened his eyes. "Yesterday papa was walking in the Chiaia. He met
Signori Merani, and she began to abuse him. She had a red parasol. She
shook it at him! She called him vigliacco--papa, a Panacci, dei Duchi di
Vedrano! The parasol--it was a bright red, it infuriated papa. He told
the Signora to stop. She knows his temper. Every one in Naples knows our
tempers, every one! I, Viviano, even Sigismondo, we are all the same,
we are all exactly like papa. If we are insulted we cannot control
ourselves. You know it, Emilio!"

"I am perfectly certain of it," said Artois. "I am positive you none of
you ca