"Women are not in my way, Mr. Hendy," I said. The truth was, I had fancied myself in love when I was twenty, with the daughter of John Boscawen, a distant relation of the famous Boscawens. She had led me on until I was mad about her. I was her slave for several months, and she treated me as though I were a dog of the fetch-and-carry breed. Presently a young fellow from a place near Penzance, Prideaux by name, came to her father's place, and no sooner did he start a-courting her than she sent me about my business, drove me away in fact, as though I were a cur. Since that time I had hated women, and I grew angry at the thought of ever being expected to put confidence in one. "The state of your affairs is not generally known," persisted the lawyer, "and a wife with a handsome dowry would mean getting back the deeds." "No petticoats for me," I replied angrily. "But if the petticoats mean comfort and freedom from money cares, would you not be wise to put aside your prejudice against them?" "Anything but that," I cried, remembering Amelia Boscawen. "Retrenchment or a wife," persisted the lawyer. "Neither," I cried, angry that directly I came into my heritage I should find myself in such a fix. The lawyer sighed. "From whom did my father borrow?" I asked presently. "Peter Trevisa," he replied. I knew the man slightly. A little, shrivelled-up, old creature who had married late in life, and who had one son whom we called "Young Peter," because he was so much like his father. Young Peter was not so old as I, and I had never been friendly with him. In fact I had despised him as a ferrety kind of fellow, with whom I had nothing in common. "He holds you like that," said the lawyer, putting out his hand and clasping it. A great deal more was said, but to no purpose, and I went on as I had gone before. True, I discharged one or two of the younger servants and sold a quantity of timber, but I did not retrench as the lawyer advised. Thus at the end of two years I was, if possible, in a worse position than when my father died. One day--and here my story really begins--I rode off to a fox hunt. I still held my head high, and rode the best horse in the field. I was careful, too, to be well dressed, and I prided myself that in spite of my poverty I was inferior to none. I was young, regarded as handsome, stood over six feet in my stockings, and was well set up. As usual I avoided women, although there were many at the meet. Although one of the heaviest men there, I kept well ahead through the day, and in spite of the weight of my debts I was in at the death. After the hunt I went to Geoffry Luxmore's ball, which was a part of the day's programme, but I did not join the dancers. I wanted to be free from women, and therefore accepted an invitation to take part in a game of cards. While sitting at dinner I saw old Peter Trevisa. He nodded to me in a friendly way. Afterward he came to me and caught me by the arm.