ELSIE. I didn't expect it.
MRS. METHERELL (graciously). You may be handier than you look. I'll try. Those pots want washing. Let me see you shape.
(Elsie eagerly begins to put the used cups together.)
There's a tray. (Pointing to plate-rack.) The sink's in yonder. (Pointing.)
EDMUND (protesting). Really, Mrs. Metherell—— (He rises.)
ELSIE. It's all right, uncle. (The tray is loaded and she lifts it.) In there, Mrs. Metherell? (Starting to go.) Mrs. Metherell. Yes.
(Edmund opens door. Elsie is going through.)
That'll not do. You won't have a man about the place to wait on you. Close that door, Mr. Whitworth, and let me see her get out by herself.
(Edmund closes it, and comes away. Elsie tries to open it, the tray is troublesome and the pots slip together on it. Mrs. Metherell rises and crosses rapidly.)
Those are my cups, you know. Here, give it to me. (Takes tray and exit, opening door with the ease of familiarity.) Elsie. I'm sorry, Mrs. Metherell. But I can learn. Mrs. Metherell (off). Maybe. You've shown willing. (She closes door from outside.)