He took some as he spoke, and began arranging them in wreaths.
Francisco would scarcely have heeded the speaker's words, save that his glance was caught almost involuntarily by the girl's sweet blush at mention of her lover's name.
"Thy betrothed," he murmured, interested a moment in the happiness that was such a contrast to his own feeling. "And does he paint too?"
Graziosa looked up with sparkling eyes.
"Beautifully," she said eagerly. "He is at work now in the Church of San' Apollinare in Brescia. We have not seen his painting, the journey is too long; but some of the panel bits he has shown us, and they are noble."
Francisco smiled faintly at her outspokenness, and her father laughed good-humoredly.
"Thou must not listen to her," he said. "She overrates his painting. He paints well, truly, but cold! ah, so cold; no spirit in it! He will sit for hours thinking how the fold of a robe should fall. I, however, have seen Taddeo Gaddi paint! The angels would seem to flow from his brush as if he gave no thought to them!" But Graziosa turned a smiling face from the boat she was unmooring.
"His altar-piece will draw all Lombardy," she cried.
"Say rather that his altar-piece draws him away from thee," laughed the painter, "and thou wilt be nearer to the truth. The altar-piece has all his time; thou but a few meager hours a week! Still, they love each other, messer, and are happy, so we never care whether Ambrogio paint well or ill." Graziosa seated herself under the blue sail, and looked up with radiant eyes.
"I am very happy," she laughed softly, "so never mind whether he paint the best or the second best in Italy."