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?