Valentine shrugged her white shoulders and laughed bitterly.
"Many things—among them this—get yourself a better tirewoman and you will keep Visconti longer—learn a little spirit and you will keep him longer still."
Graziosa glanced down at her dress, the richer of the two, but worn with no such grace.
"'Tis no question of my dress, lady," she answered, with some dignity—"nor of beauty—but of love alone."
Valentine looked at her curiously, scornfully. They were passing between rich bushes of roses and lilies, the air was heavy with scent, and from the ladies following came gentle laughter.
"You think he loves you?" asked Valentine.
"I know it," answered Graziosa, proudly.
Valentine smiled and looked away. The smile and glance stung Visconti's betrothed like a whip-stroke.
"What do you mean?" she cried. "You insult me—you insult him!"
"Do you know Gian Visconti so very well?" asked his sister. "Have you seen him torturing his prisoners with the slow torture of the mind—worse than any rack? Have you seen him lying and betraying, stealing and murdering?"