LAURA. Yes, I suppose we shall.

JULIA. It will be quite like old days.

LAURA (_warningly, as she sits down again and prepares for narrative_).

Not _quite_, Julia. (_She leans forward, and speaks with measured emphasis._) Martha's temper has got very queer! She never had a very good temper, as you know: and it's grown on her.

(_A pause. Julia remains silent._)

I could tell you some things; but---- (_Seeing herself unencouraged_) oh, you'll find out soon enough! (_Then, to stand right with herself_) Julia, _am_ I difficult to get on with?

JULIA. Oh well, we all have our little ways, Laura.

LAURA. But Martha: she's so rude! I can't introduce her to people! If anyone comes, she just runs away.

JULIA (_changing the subject_). D'you remember, Laura, that charming young girl we met at Mrs. Somervale's, the summer Uncle Fletcher stayed with us?

LAURA (_snubbingly_). I can't say I do.

JULIA. I met her the other day: married, and with three children--and just as pretty and young-looking as ever.

(_All this is said with the most ravishing air, but Laura is not to be diverted._)

LAURA. Ah! I daresay. When Martha behaves like that, I hold my tongue and say nothing. But what people must think, I don't know. Julia, when you first came here, did you find old friends and acquaintances? Did anybody recognise you?

JULIA. A few called on me: n.o.body I didn't wish to see.

LAURA. Is that odious man who used to be our next-door neighbour--the one who played on the 'cello--here still?

JULIA. Mr. Harper? I see him occasionally. I don't find him odious.

LAURA. _Don't you?_

JULIA. It was his wife who was the---- She isn't here: and I don't think he wants her.

LAURA. Where is she?

JULIA. I didn't ask, Laura.

(_Mrs. James gives a jerk of exasperation, but at that moment the bell rings and a low knock is heard._)

JULIA (_ecstatically_). Here she is!

LAURA. Julia, I wonder how it is Martha survived us. She's much the oldest.

JULIA (_pleasantly palpitating_). Does it matter? Does it matter?

(_The door opens and in comes Martha. She has neither the distinction of look nor the force of character which belongs to her two sisters. Age has given a depression to the plain kindliness of her face, and there is a hara.s.sed look about her eyes. She peeps into the room a little anxiously, then enters, carrying a large flat box covered in purple paper which, in her further progress across the room she lays upon the table. She talks in short jerks and has a quick, hurried way of doing things, as if she liked to get through and have done with them. It is the same when she submits herself to the embrace of her relations._)

LAURA. Oh, so you've come at last. Quite time, too!

MARTHA. Yes, here I am.

JULIA. My dear Martha, welcome to your old home! (_Embracing her._) How are you?

MARTHA. I'm cold. Well, Laura.

(_Between these two the embrace is less cordial, but it takes place._)

LAURA. How did you come?

MARTHA. I don't know.

JULIA (_seeing hara.s.sment in her sister's eye_). Arrived safely, at any rate.

MARTHA. I think I was in a railway accident, but I can't be sure. I only heard the crash and people shouting. I didn't wait to see. I just put my fingers in my ears, and ran away.

LAURA. Why do you think it was a railway accident?

MARTHA. Because I was in a railway carriage. I was coming to your funeral. If you'd told me you were ill I'd have come before. I was bringing you a wreath. And then, as I tell you, there was a crash and a shout; and that's all I know about it.

LAURA. Lor', Martha! I suppose they'll have an inquest on you.

MARTHA (_stung_). I think they'd better mind their own business, and you mind yours!

JULIA. Laura! Here we don't talk about such things. They don't concern us. Would you like tea, Martha, or will you wait for supper?

MARTHA (_who has shaken her head at the offer of tea,_ _and nodded a preference for supper_). You know how I've always dreaded death.

JULIA. Oh, don't, my dear Martha! It's past.

MARTHA. Yes; but it's upset me. The relief, that's what I can't get over: the relief!

JULIA. Presently you will be more used to it.

(_She helps her off with her cloak._)

MARTHA. There were people sitting to right and to left of me and opposite; and suddenly a sort of crash of darkness seemed to come all over me, and I saw nothing more. I didn't feel anything: only a sort of a jar here.

(_She indicates the back of her neck. Julia finds these anatomical details painful, and holds her hands deprecatingly; but Laura has no such qualms. She is now undoing the parcel which, she considers, is hers._)

LAURA. I daresay it was only somebody's box from the luggage-rack. I've known that happen. I don't suppose for a minute that it was a railway accident.

(_She unfurls the tissue paper of the box and takes out the wreath._)

JULIA. Why talk about it?

LAURA. Anyway, nothing has happened to these. 'With fondest love from Martha.' H'm. Pretty!