They went out of the butt, and she stood watching the dog picking up the birds Lord Ashiel had shot. He found nineteen, and the loader picked up three more. Juliet was glad her host shot so well. She thought him a wonderful man. And how kind he was to her. But she could not help looking over from time to time to the next butt, round which three other people were wandering: Sir David Southern, and his loader, and Miss Maisie Tarver, to whom he was engaged to be married.
One of Sir David's birds had fallen near his uncle's butt, and presently he strolled across to look for it, his eyes on the heather as he zigzagged about, leading his dog by the chain which his uncle insisted on his using.
"There is something here," called Juliet. "Yes, it is a dead grouse. Is this your bird?"
Sir David came up and took it.
"That's it," he said. "Thanks very much. How do you like this sort of thing?"
He leant against the butt and looked down at her.
"Oh, it's so lovely here," began Juliet.
"But you don't like the shooting, eh?"
"I don't know," Juliet stammered. "I think it's rather cruel."
"You must remember there wouldn't be any grouse at all if they weren't shot," he said seriously, "and besides, wild birds don't die comfortably in their beds if they're not killed by man. A charge of shot is more merciful than a death from cold and starvation, or even from the attack of a hawk or any of a bird's other natural enemies. Just think. Wouldn't you rather have the violent end yourself than the slow, lingering one?"