The pool was spread with the thick-veined leaves of water-lilies and upright plants with succulent stalks broke the surface of the water. In between the sky was reflected placidly, and the Duchess looked down at the counterfeit of her face as clearly given as if in a hand-mirror. It was no longer a young face; beauty was painted on it skilfully; false red, false white, bleached hair cunningly dyed, faded eyes darkened on brow and lash, lips glistening with red ointment, the lost loveliness of throat and shoulders concealed under a lace of gold and pearls, made her look like a portrait of a fair woman, painted crudely. And, also like one composed for her picture, her face was expressionless save for a certain air of gentleness, which seemed as false as everything else about her–false and exquisite, inscrutable and alluring–alluring still with a certain sickly and tainted charm, slightly revolting as were the perfumes of her unguents when compared to the pure scents of trees and flowers. Her women had painted faces, too, but they were plainly gowned, one in violet, one in crimson, while the Duchess blazed in every device of splendour. Her dress, of citron-coloured velvet, trailed about her in huge folds, her bodice and her enormous sleeves sparkled with tight-sewn jewels; her hair was twisted into plaits and curls and ringlets; in her ears were pearls so large that they touched her shoulders. She trembled in her splendour and her knees bent; the two women stood silent, holding her up–they were little more than slaves. She continued to gaze at the reflection of herself; in the water she was fair enough. Presently she moistened her painted lips with a quick movement of her tongue. “Will you go in, Madonna?” asked one of the women. The Duchess shook her head; the pearls tinkled among the dyed curls. “Leave me here,” she said. She drew herself from their support and sank heavily and wearily on the marble rim of the pool. “Bring me my cloak.” They fetched it from a seat among the laurels; it was white velvet, unwieldy with silver and crimson embroidery. Lucrezia drew it round her shoulders with a little shudder. “Leave me here,” she repeated. They moved obediently across the soft grass and disappeared up the laurel-shaded steps that led to the terraces before the high-built palace. The Duchess lifted her stiff fingers, that were rendered almost useless by the load of gems on them, to her breast. Trails of pink vapour, mere wraiths of clouds began to float about the west; the long Italian twilight had fallen. A young man parted the bushes and stepped on to the grass; he carried a lute slung by a red ribbon across his violet jacket; he moved delicately, as if reverent of the great beauty of the hour. Lucrezia turned her head and watched him with weary eyes.