[There is a pause.]
You wouldn't be happier telling me all about it? Or letting me help you, perhaps?
Benvenuta. What good were there in that? You sew as badly as I do, child.
Atalanta. It's not kind of you to say so.
Benvenuta. I'm sorry, Atalanta, dear. And it's most ungrateful of me—for you are helping me—helping me very much. And as for my telling you—it's a great secret, and you should be content to know as much as you do of it.
Atalanta. I'm afraid I know too much of it now. I'm afraid I ought to be confessing what I know already.
Benvenuta. Confessing it. Oh, no; Atalanta, dear—
Atalanta. I'm afraid I ought—unless you tell me more.
Benvenuta. Oh, I see. Now, listen, my child. This matter is one concerning my devotions—a private matter surely, and needing no confessions from you.
Atalanta. Then why these secret messages, and the gold thread, and the gardener's child's coat to be got by stealth?