ight.

(_Mrs. James does her best to conceal the shock this gives her. She
delivers her ultimatum with judicial firmness._)

LAURA. William, I wish you to come and live here with me.

(_William vanishes. Mrs. James in a fervour of virtuous indignation
hastens to the door, opens it, and calls 'William!' but there is no
answer._)

(_Julia, meanwhile, has rung the bell. Mrs. James stills stands glowering
in the door-way when she hears footsteps, and moves majestically aside
for the returned penitent to enter; but alas! it is only Hannah, obedient
to the summons of the bell. Mrs. James faces round and fires a shot at
her._)

LAURA. Hannah, you _are_ an ugly woman.

JULIA (_faint with horror_). Laura!

HANNAH (_imperturbably_). Well, Ma'am, I'm as God made me.

JULIA. Yes, please, take the tea-things. (_Sotto voce, as Hannah
approaches._) I'm sorry, Hannah!

HANNAH. It doesn't matter, Ma'am. (_She picks up the tray expeditiously
and carries it off._)

(_Mrs. James eyes the departing tray, and is again reminded of
something._)

LAURA. Julia, where is the silver tea-pot?

JULIA. Which, Laura?

LAURA. Why, that beautiful one of our Mother's.

JULIA. When we shared our dear Mother's things between us, didn't Martha
have it?

LAURA. Yes, she did. But she tells me she doesn't know what's become of
it. When I ask, what did she do with it in the first place? she loses her
temper. But once she told me she left it here with _you_.

(_The fierce eye and the accusing tone make no impression on that
cushioned fortress of gentility. With suave dignity Miss Robinson makes
chaste denial._)

JULIA. No.

LAURA (_insistent_). Yes; in a box.

JULIA. In a box? Oh, she may have left anything in a box.

LAURA. It was that box she always travelled about with and never opened.
Well, I looked in it once (never mind how), and the tea-pot wasn't there.

JULIA (_gently, making allowance_). Well, I _didn't_ look in it, Laura.

(_Like a water-lily folding its petals she adjusts a small shawl about
her shoulders, and sinks composedly into her chair._)

LAURA. The more fool you! . . . But all the other things she had of our
Mother's _were_ there: a perfect magpie's nest! And she, living in her
boxes, and never settling anywhere. What did she want with them?

JULIA. I can't say, Laura.

LAURA. No--no more can I; no more can anyone! Martha has got the miser
spirit. She's as grasping as a caterpillar. _I_ ought to have had that