“That is no answer, Orsini. And I do not want your barren flatteries.”
“You are the Duke’s wife,” he said, “and I am the servant of the Duke.”
“Does that mean that you must lie to me?”
She leant even nearer to him; her whitened chin, circled by the stiff goldwork of her collar, touched his shoulder.
“Tell me I am beautiful,” she said. “I must hear that once more–from young lips.”
“You are beautiful, Madonna.”
She moved back and her eyes flared.
“Did I not say I would not have your flatteries?”
“What, then, was your meaning?”
“Ten years ago you would not have asked; no man would have asked. I am old. Lucrezia old!–ah, Gods above!”