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 tea-pot.
julia. Why?
laura. Because I had a house of my own, and people coming to tea. Martha never had anyone to tea with her in her life—except in lodgings.
julia. We all like to live in our own way. Martha liked going about.