It was a glorious September, and the Scottish moors looked as they had not looked for years; the heather grew in rich profusion, the grouse were plentiful.

The prospects for sportsmen were excellent.
Not knowing what else to do, Lord Arleigh resolved to go to Scotland for the shooting; there was a sort of savage satisfaction in the idea of living so many weeks alone, without on-lookers, where he could be dull if he liked without comment--where he could lie for hours together on the heather looking up at the blue skies, and puzzling over the problem of his life--where, when the fit of despair seized him, he could indulge in it, and no one wonder at him.

He hired a shooting-lodge called Glaburn.

In his present state of mind it seemed to him to be a relief to live where he could not even see a woman's face.

Glaburn was kept in order by two men, who mismanaged it after the fashion of men, but Lord Arleigh was happier there than he had been since his fatal marriage-day, simply because he was quite alone.