Atalanta. Even you, Benvenuta! What amuses you so?
Benvenuta. It's your hair. It's so funny—it's so long since I've seen your hair, Atalanta, dear.
Atalanta [sullenly]. It's not that I want to talk to you about. You needn't have laughed.
Benvenuta. I know, dear. I shouldn't have laughed, but I always do. I'm so unworthy. I can't seem to help it, though I tell myself, often and often, that it's trifling and worldly to laugh so much, and undignified, too, before the children and novices. I will try not to laugh, Atalanta. Sister Grimana said you wanted me. What is it, dear?
[She looks at Atalanta and smothers another laugh.]
Put on your veil, child.
Atalanta. Don't call me child—I'm only three years younger than you, and I'm taller.
[She puts on the veil again, still sullen.]
Benvenuta. You're only a novice and I call you a child—very properly, too. And if you want me to talk to you, you must listen—like a good child.
[A step is heard approaching and a rattle of keys; Atalanta pulls at Benvenuta's dress as if to draw her down beside her.]