II
It rose for them—the moon—their tutelary orb, if you prefer to put it that way, as indeed you may, goodness knows, some do—over Como, Streffy’s villa, marble balustrades, stephanotis, gardenias, nightingales, and Streffy’s cigars....
But now their month was ended. They were packing for the next on their string, Vanderlyn’s palazzo in Venice, equally well found.
“The new tenant’s motor has come,” said Susy gaily, “and I’ve bribed the chauffeur to drive us to Milan. It’s so much cheaper than railway fares.”
“Clever of you!” Nicky laughed.
“And I’ve packed all the rest of Streffy’s cigars.”
“Streffy’s cigars?” Lansing stared, aghast. “Streffy’s cigars! Oh, my God! Give me the key, woman!”...
He worked half an hour over the refractory lock, perspired, broke his finger-nails, disinterred them at last. Then he jumped into the motor and they were whirling through the nightingale-thickets to the gates.
“Why did you leave the cigars, dear?” she asked.
“Of course, you don’t understand, darling,” he answered gently. “No woman knows anything about cigars. Streffy never bought those cigars, dear. They were given to him. Thank God! Vanderlyn buys his own cigars....”