"They won't. They never do," said Septimus.

His plight was so hopeless, he seemed so immeasurably her sex's inferior,
that he awoke her contemptuous pity. Besides, her trained woman's hands
itched to restore order out of masculine chaos.

"Turn everything out and I'll pack for you," she said resolutely,
regardless of the proprieties. On further investigation she held out
horrified hands.

He had mixed up shirts with shoes. His clothes were rolled in bundles, his
collars embraced his sponge, his trees, divorced from boots, lay on the top
of an unprotected bottle of hair-wash; he had tried to fit his brushes
against a box of tooth-powder and the top had already come off. Turner
shook out his dress suit and discovered a couple of hotel towels which had
got mysteriously hidden in the folds. She held them up severely.

"No wonder you can't get your things in if you take away half the hotel
linen," and she threw them to the other side of the room.

In twenty minutes she had worked the magic of Wiggleswick. Septimus was
humbly grateful.

"If I were you, sir," she said, "I'd go to the station at once and sit on
my boxes till my mistress arrives."

"I think I'll do it, Turner," said Septimus.

Turner went back to Zora flushed, triumphant, and indignant.