Ada looked in once with a very black face; but no one spoke to her, and she did not vouchsafe any remark, but, after looking at what they were about, took herself off to her own room, where she turned out her things on the floor, and sat down amongst the confusion to pick out what she wanted to take with her to South Bay.
Out of humour with everyone, and with herself above all, she soon grew tired and hot. The ribbons seemed endless; the gloves would not pair; unexpected holes and rents appeared in garments she had thought were quite ready for packing; and at length, thoroughly disheartened, she laid her head on the side of the bed near which she was seated and began to cry.
She was startled by a cheerful "Hulloa! Here's a mess!" And Arthur came striding across the forlorn room, and perched himself on the footboard of her bedstead.
"Well, Ada, so this is packing is it? I told you it was too soon to begin, and now you've proved it. The way to pack is, wait till the last moment, then seize a carpet bag, rush to your drawers, take out one of each sort of thing, stuff them in as quick as lightning, squeeze them in somehow, lock it up, rush down stairs, jump into a cab, and hope you've left nothing behind."
Ada laughed, in spite of her bad spirits, and would have cheered up had she not looked once more on the hopeless confusion.
"I am so dreadfully tired and hot," she said dolefully.
"I should think so; quite enough to give you the blues for a week. Shall I help you put 'em back?"
"Oh, do!" said Ada.
"Here goes then." And faster than they came out, Arthur stuffed them in—ribbons, neckties, gloves, handkerchiefs, collars, and clothes.
"Oh, that's my best dress!" said Ada, catching at him as he took a last armful.