ty that disreputable
compatriot of mine, Giovanni Fornajo, who had accompanied him to my room
on the evening of our first meeting. When I reached Naples I had some
trouble with this personage, who, with the peculiar faculty which
belongs to the race of hangers-on and spongers, had somehow found me
out, and came to borrow money. It was enough for his limitless impudence
to remember that he had once been within my walls in London. I knew that
to yield once would be to make myself a tributary to his necessities for
ever. I refused him, therefore, and dismissed him without ceremony. He
retired unabashed, and came to the charge again. I was strolling along
the Chiaja, when I saw him and turned into the Caffe d'Italia to avoid
him. He had seen me and followed. I professed to be absorbed in the
contents of an English journal, but he sat down at the same table, and
entered into conversation, or rather into talk, for I let him have it
all to himself. He talked in English, which he really spoke very well,
though with a marked accent. I paid but little heed to him, and only
just made out that he complained of the conduct of his late associate,
who had, so he said, borrowed money of him when they were poor together,
and had thrown him over now without repaying him.

'It comes to this,' he said, after a long and rambling discursion on his
wrong; 'when I was the only man in Naples who could speak English and
would have to do with him, he used me; and now that he is at home here,
and can speak the language, and has plenty of money, he will have no
more to do.'

'My good friend,' I said, breaking in, 'I will have no more to do, since
you prefer to put it so, I am tired of you. I do not desire to know you.
Oblige me by not knowing me in future.'

'Maledizione!' he said. 'But you are impolite, Signor Calvotti.'

'And you, Signor Fornajo, are only unbearable. I have the pleasure to
wish you goodbye.'

He rose and retreated, but returned.

'Signor Calvotti,' he said, reseating himself, 'I shall ask you to do me
a favour. You know Grammont and you know his friends. He will listen to
you where he will not look at me. Will you do me the favour to speak for
me to ask him to pay me?'

I thought I saw a way to be rid of him.

'How much does he owe you?' I asked him.

'Cento franchi,' he answered.

'Very good. Bring me pen, ink, and paper.'

He called one of the camerieri and ordered these, and I read quietly
until they came.

'No