“I’ve no doubt you did,” the girl agreed. “An old cock grouse got up in front of us—it was irresistibly tempting.”
Gladwyne turned to Lisle with a slight movement of his shoulders which was somehow expressive of half-indulgent contempt.
“You’re Nasmyth’s friend from Canada? I guess you don’t understand these things, but you might have made the birds break back,” he said. “However, we must get under cover now—there’s your butt. I’ll see you later.”
He turned away and Lisle took up his station behind the wall of turf pointed to. He had once upon a time been forcibly rebuked for his clumsiness at some unaccustomed task in the Canadian bush and had not resented it, but the faint movement of Gladwyne’s shoulders had brought a warmth to his face. The girl noticed this.
“Clarence can be unpleasant when he likes, but there are excuses for him,” she said. “A day’s shooting is one of the things we take seriously, and manners are not at a higher premium here than I suppose they are in the wilds.”
Lisle made no response, and there was silence on the sun-steeped moor until a row of small dark objects skimming the crest of the ridge above became silhouetted against the sky. Then a gun cracked away to the right and in another moment a dropping fusillade broke out.