"The horrid old thing tried to pick open my parcel, but I wouldn't let her. I guess Miss Sharp-eyes won't try again to—Why, where are you, Arabella?"
A tall, thin girl with a pale face and colorless hair emerged from the closet where she had been hanging some garments.
"Do you rush into people's rooms, and call them names?" she asked in a peculiar drawl.
Patricia for once, was too surprised to speak.
"My name is not Arabella, nor Miss Sharp-eyes," concluded the girl.
"I—I beg your pardon. I thought this was my own room," gasped Patricia, and rushing from the room, opened the next door on which her own name and Arabella's appeared. She flew in, banging the door behind her.
Arabella sprang to her feet, dropped her glasses, picked them up, and setting them upon her nose, stared through them at Patricia.
"Don't you speak a single word!" commanded Patricia, "for I'm 'bout as mad as I can be now, and if I get any madder—"
She stopped in sheer amazement, for Arabella had put on her hat, and was now getting into her coat.
"Where are you going?" demanded Patricia, but Arabella put her left hand over her lips, while with her right she slipped another button into its buttonhole, and sidled toward the door.