I am not ashamed to confess my weakness. Any woman, who thinks it worth her while, can put her foot upon my neck. It is for this reason that I fight shy of the sex, that I am considered a bear and a bore by the majority of my female acquaintances, and that my pretty cousins call me The Woman-hater. There are certain allurements I cannot resist, certain encroachments I cannot withstand. I see the net, and walk into it open-eyed. Other men can emerge scathless from the ordeal of Christmas games and Twelfth-night festivities; can play at blind-man’s-buff without finding their mental vision dazzled and darkened by the game; can hunt the slipper or the ring, round and round the charmed circle, nor find the charm too potent for their peace of mind; nay, can even take a base advantage of the pendent mistletoe, with a forehead of brass, a check of marble, and a lip of stone. I envy them their insensibility, their moral courage, and their physical daring; but for my own part I think it wiser to leave these “little games” alone. Need I say I am a bachelor? Need I say I came to the Haycock in order to enjoy my favourite pastime, unmolested by the presence of the dominant sex? Even Miss Lushington I had considered an unnecessary addition to the establishment, a snare to be avoided and an enemy to be defied: but I had been somewhat reassured by the mild and motherly interest that lady took in my welfare, and the impartiality with which she shed her attractions on all alike. But now, if I was to be exposed to the insidious attacks of this mounted Delilah, beset by Miss Merlin, not only in the free intercourse of the hunting-field, but also when “taking mine ease in mine inn,” why I had better retire in disorder at once, and obviate the possibility of battle and defeat alike, by a tumultuous flight. Revolving these weighty matters in my mind, I retraced my steps into the Haycock, and ordered a glass of sherry and a biscuit in the bar. Miss Lushington filled out my liquor to the brim without a word, slamming down before me at the same time that biscuit, peculiar to the British hostelry, of which, to judge by its flavour, the ingredients are soda and sawdust, with a dash of gravel. I munched in silence for awhile, observing cautiously the clouds that gathered on the barmaid’s brow. At last I ventured an observation. “A fresh arrival, I understand, Miss Lushington. The Haycock will be getting quite gay now, I presume.” Miss Lushington’s only reply was a toss of her black head. “Do you expect any more visitors?” I proceeded, like a timid bather trying his depth. “This will be somewhat lonely for a lady all by herself, when she isn’t out hunting, I should say.”