Graziosa was not in her gorgeous residence. "She had gone to the little summer-house in the garden," he was told, "to see the sun set, and pray to Santa Teresa, whose name-day it was." Visconti turned on his heel with an impatient shrug of the shoulders. He was not attuned to passive virtue or to saintly prayers, nor was his palace their best background. He saw Tisio and his pages in the distance--behind them, the white marble summer-house, standing on a gentle eminence, half hidden in laurel; and as he advanced through the clustering flowers he saw Tisio enter the low door, the scarlet liveries of the pages flashing through the deep green. The perfect evening was like music in its calm loveliness. Visconti felt its charm; he was ever alive to obvious beauty, and none of his artist's perception could have walked this glorious summer garden, at such an hour, unmoved. His heart softened toward Graziosa: she had saved Milan--for his sake: in his great triumph he could afford to remember it, and the affection that prompted it, and set to her credit much else she might seem to lack. He picked a white rose from the bush that crossed his path, and stuck it in his belt; he remembered she had often worn them--there was a bush in Agnolo's bower, and they reminded him of her. He looked up at the white summer-house, a square tower, distinct against the sky: the top window was open wide, then suddenly blew to--and Visconti started at it curiously and so suddenly that a pang shot through his heart. Then he advanced with a quicker step toward the marble summer-house. Graziosa stood in its upper chamber, a circular room, broken by three large windows--the walls a marvel of serpentine and jasper, the casements a glory of stained glass, through which there poured the last rays of the setting sun, flooding everything with a thousand dazzling colors. A carved marble bench ran around the wall, and above it shallow niches, in one of which stood a gilt lamp. On the floor lay a forgotten lute, tied with a knot of cherry-colored ribbons. Graziosa unlatched one of the windows; it opened center-wise, and the girl stood, one hand on either leaf, the sun making her golden bright from head to foot. Before her lay Milan, the beautiful, with its trees and gardens, clear in the setting sun, that sunk, a fiery ball, behind the distant purple hills. Graziosa breathed heavily. The tower looked toward the western gate; the sun caught the roof of a little house beside it, the roof of a house and a flock of white doves that flew around it, as if looking for something they could not find. Near rose the square tower of a little church, Santa Maria Nuova. Graziosa stepped back into the room, letting the window fall-to with a clang. Some one must come soon. With a piteous little gesture she pulled at the jeweled fastening of her stiff satin robe. For some moments her trembling fingers could not undo the great pearl clasp. At last it opened, and the yellow robe fell apart.