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.