“By the way, I suppose you know Naples well?”

“Oh, si, signor!”

“Ebbene, can you tell me the way to the house of one Count Fabio Romani, a wealthy nobleman of this city?”

Ha! a good hit this time!  Though apparently not looking at him I saw Ferrari start as though he had been stung, and then compose himself in his seat with an air of attention.  The waiter meanwhile, in answer to my question, raised his hands, eyes and shoulders all together with a shrug expressive of resigned melancholy.

“Ah, gran Dio! e morto!”

“Dead!” I exclaimed, with a pretended start of shocked surprise.  “So young?  Impossible!”

“Eh! what will you, signor?  It was la pesta; there was no remedy.  La pesta cares nothing for youth or age, and spares neither rich nor poor.”

For a moment I leaned my head on my hand, affecting to be overcome by the suddenness of the news.  Then looking up, I said, regretfully: 

“Alas!  I am too late!  I was a friend of his father’s.  I have been away for many years, and I had a great wish to meet the young Romani whom I last saw as a child.  Are there any relations of his living—­ was he married?”

The waiter, whose countenance had assumed a fitting lugubriousness in accordance with what he imagined were my feelings, brightened up immediately as he replied eagerly: 

“Oh, si, signor!  The Contessa Romani lives up at the villa, though I believe she receives no one since her husband’s death.  She is young and beautiful as an angel.  There is a little child too.”

A hasty movement on the part of Ferrari caused me to turn my eyes, or rather my spectacles, in his direction.  He leaned forward, and raising his hat with the old courteous grace I knew so well, said politely: 

“Pardon me, signor, for interrupting you!  I knew the late young Count Romani well—­perhaps better than any man in Naples.  I shall be delighted to afford you any information you may seek concerning him.”

Oh, the old mellow music of his voice—­how it struck on my heart and pierced it like the refrain of a familiar song loved in the days of our youth.  For an instant I could not speak—­wrath and sorrow choked my utterance.  Fortunately this feeling was but momentary—­slowly I raised my hat in response to his salutation, and answered stiffly: 

“I am your servant, signor.  You will oblige me indeed if you can place me in communication with the relatives of this unfortunate young nobleman.  The elder Count Romani was dearer to me than a brother—­men have such attachments occasionally.  Permit me to introduce myself,” and I handed him my visiting-card with a slight and formal bow.  He accepted it, and as he read the name it bore he gave me a quick glance of respect mingled with pleased surprise.

“The Conte Cesare Oliva!” he exclaimed.  “I esteem myself most fortunate to have met you!  Your arrival has already been notified to us by the avant-courier of the fashionable intelligence, so that we are well aware,” here laughing lightly, “of the distinctive right you have to a hearty welcome in Naples.  I am only sorry that any distressing news should have darkened the occasion of your return here after so long an absence.  Permit me to express the hope that it may at least be the only cloud for you on our southern sunshine!”