“We have changed the subject!” exclaimed Eugene, airily. “We have found a new one in that word, scout. Don’t be like Patience on a mantelpiece frowning at Dolls, but sit down, and I’ll tell you something that you really will find amusing. Take a cigar. Look at this of mine. I light it⁠—draw one puff⁠—breathe the smoke out⁠—there it goes⁠—it’s Dolls!⁠—it’s gone⁠—and being gone you are a man again.”

“Your subject,” said Mortimer, after lighting a cigar, and comforting himself with a whiff or two, “was scouts, Eugene.”

“Exactly. Isn’t it droll that I never go out after dark, but I find myself attended, always by one scout, and often by two?”

Lightwood took his cigar from his lips in surprise, and looked at his friend, as if with a latent suspicion that there must be a jest or hidden meaning in his words.