But Sarah Jennings was no maid to be easily won by any man—­even by a lover so dowered with physical graces and so invested with the halo of romance as John Churchill.  She knew all about his heroism on battlefields; she knew also of that little incident in a palace boudoir, and of many another youthful peccadillo of the gallant young colonel.  She was no flower to be worn and flung aside; and she meant that Colonel Churchill should know it.  She could be gracious to him, as to any other man; but she quickly made the limits of her indulgence clear.  To all his amorous advances she presented a smiling and inscrutable front; his ardour was as unwelcome as it was premature.

Had she designed to make a conquest of her martial lover she could not have set to work more diplomatically.  Colonel Churchill had basked for years in woman’s smiles, often unsought and undesired; to coldness and indifference he was a stranger; but they only served, as becomes a soldier, to make him more resolute on victory.  As a subtle tongue and a handsome person made no impression on this frigid beauty, he had recourse to his pen (since his sword was useless for such a conquest) and inundated her with letters, breathing undying devotion, and craving for at least a smile or a look of kindness.

“Show me,” he writes, “that, at least, you are not quite indifferent to me, and I swear that I will never love anything but your dear self, which has made so sure a conquest of me that, had I the will, I had not the power ever to break my chains.  Pray let me hear from you and know if I shall be so happy as to see you to-night.”

But to all his protestations and appeals she returns no response.  If she is deaf to the pleadings of love she must, he determined, at least give him her pity.  He writes to tell her that he is “extreme ill with the headache,” and craves a word of sympathy, as a beggar craves a crust.  He vows, in his pain,

“by all that is good I love you so well that I wish from my soul that if you cannot love me, I may die, for life could be to me one perpetual torment.  If the Duchess,” he adds, “sees company I hope you will be there; but if she does not, I beg you will then let me see you in your chamber, if it be but for one hour.  If you are not in the drawing-room you must then send me word at what hour I shall come.”

At last the iceberg thaws a little—­though it is only to charge him with unkindness!  She assumes the role of virtue; and, with a woman’s capriciousness, charges her lover with the coldness and neglect which she herself has visited on him.

     “Your not writing to me,” she says, “made me very uneasy,
     for I was afraid it was want of kindness in you, which I
     am sure I will never deserve by any action of mine.”

Was ever wayward woman so unjust?  For weeks Churchill had been deluging her with ardent letters, to which she had not deigned to answer one word.  Now she assumes an air of injured innocence, and accuses him of unkindness!  She even promises to see him, but cannot resist the temptation to qualify the concession with a gibe.