[She removes her keys and goes out, without locking the closet.]
Atalanta. That was good of you, Benvenuta. Now, listen to me. I am unworthy. I am unhappy. I feel no call. Tell me—tell me about the world, Sister Benvenuta—I beg you, tell me—
Benvenuta. I will tell you of God's love, and of this holy life—
Atalanta [leading her to the stairway, where she sits down]. Yes—I know. But first, tell me about the world.
Benvenuta. I only tell you by way of admonition—that you may see how hollow is the world, and full of delusion—
Atalanta. I understand you. Go on.
[She draws Benvenuta down beside her.]
Benvenuta. You must know then, that I—even I, Sister Benvenuta, was a most worldly little girl. I can remember so clearly how I used to run madly through the gardens, and roll on the grass like—like a wild puppy, and bury my face in the roses—till they scratched my nose and the warm scent made me dizzy. And then I would climb on the wall and watch the barges go by, with the strong men sculling them, and the women under the awnings sorting crabs and prawns.
Atalanta. Tell me about the barge people.
Benvenuta. That was all I saw of them. And then they would take me to my lady mother, of a forenoon, while she was having her hair powdered and curled; and there would be a black page bringing her chocolate, and her serving cavalier would be leaning beside her mirror taking snuff.