"I don't know whom he meant them for--but they're not
ours ...."

She continued to look at him wonderingly. "I don't see
what there is to be solemn about. The cigars are not Streffy's
either ... you may be sure he got them out of some bounder. And
there's nothing he'd hate more than to have them passed on to
another."

"Nonsense. If they're not Streffy's they're much less mine.
Hand them over, please, dear."

"Just as you like. But it does seem a waste; and, of course,
the other people will never have one of them .... The gardener
and Giulietta's lover will see to that!"

Lansing looked away from her at the waves of lace and muslin
from which she emerged like a rosy Nereid. "How many boxes of
them are left?"

"Only four."

"Unpack them, please."

Before she moved there was a pause so full of challenge that
Lansing had time for an exasperated sense of the disproportion
between his anger and its cause. And this made him still
angrier.

She held out a box. "The others are in your suitcase