Uncle John liked his nieces to make friends, and encouraged young men generally to meet them; but there was something in the appearance of this callow Italian nobleman that stamped his character as artificial and insincere.  He resolved to find out something about his antecedents before he permitted the young fellow to establish friendly relations with his girls.

Next morning after breakfast he wandered through the lobby and paused at the little office, where he discovered that the proprietor of this hotel was a brother of that Floriano who managed the Hotel du Vesuve.  That gave him an excuse to talk with the man, who spoke very good English and was exceedingly courteous to his guests—­especially when they were American.

“I see you have Count Ferralti with you,” remarked Uncle John.

“Whom, sir?”

“Ferralti—­Count Ferralti.  The young man standing by the window, yonder.”

“I—­I did not know,” he said, hesitatingly.  “The gentleman arrived last evening, and I had not yet learned his name.  Let me see,” he turned to his list of guests, who register by card and not in a book, and continued:  “Ah, yes; he has given his name as Ferralti, but added no title.  A count, did you say?”

“Yes,” replied Uncle John.

The proprietor looked curiously toward the young man, whose back only was visible.  Then he remarked that the eruption of Vesuvius was waning and the trouble nearly over for this time.

“Are the Ferraltis a good family?” asked Uncle John, abruptly.

“That I cannot tell you, Signor Merrick.”

“Oh.  Perhaps you know little about the nobility of your country.”

“I!  I know little of the nobility!” answered Floriano, indignantly.  “My dear signor, there is no man better posted as to our nobility in all Italy.”

“Yet you say you don’t know the Ferralti family.”

The proprietor reached for a book that lay above his desk.

“Observe, signor.  Here is our record of nobility.  It is the same as the ‘Blue Book’ or the ‘Peerage’ of England.  Either fortunately or unfortunately—­I cannot say—­you have no need of such a book in America.”

He turned the pages and ran his finger down the line of “Fs.”

“Find me, if you can, a Count Ferralti in the list.”

Uncle John looked.  He put on his glasses and looked again.  The name of Ferralti was no place in the record.

“Then there is no such count, Signor Floriano.”

“And no such noble family, Signor Merrick.”

Uncle John whistled softly and walked away to the window.  The young man greeted him with a smile and a bow.

“I misunderstood your name last evening,” he said.  “I thought you were Count Ferralti.”

“And that is right, sir,” was the prompt reply.  “Allow me to offer you my card.”

Uncle John took the card and read: 

“CONTE LEONARDI FERRALTI,
Milano, Italia.”