ich was invariably
received with shrieks of delight by the infant Sarah, whose brilliant
sense of humour was plainly apparent, even at that early age.

Her adolescence was remarkable for little save the rapid development of
her supple loveliness, some idea of which can be gauged from the
reproduction of Punter's famous portrait on page 74. Though painted at a
somewhat later date, this masterpiece still presents us with most of the
leading characteristics of its ravishing model. Note the eyes--the
dreamy, cognisant expression; glance at the pretty mouth and the dainty
ears. Her demeanour is obviously that of a meek and modest woman, but
Punter, with his true genius, has caught that glint of inward fire, that
fleeting look of shy mischief that earned for her the world-famous
nickname of "Winsome Sal."

It was when she was eighteen[11] that Destiny, with inhuman cunning,
caught up in his net the fragile ball of her life.

The handsome, devil-may-care Julius Fenchurch-Streete applied to Lord
Ffraddle for a secretaryship, which was ultimately granted to him.
Imagine the situation--this rake, this dark-eyed ne'er-do-well,
notorious all down Cheapside for his relentless dalliance with the fair,
placed in intimate proximity with one of England's most glorious
specimens of ripening womanhood. It was, Sheepmeadow writes, like the
meeting of flint and tinder--these two so widely different in the
essentials and yet so akin in their physical beauty. As was inevitable,
from the first they loved--he with the flaming passion of a hell-rake,
she with the sweet, appealing purity of one whose whole life had been
peculiarly virginal. There followed swiftly upon their ardent
confessions the determination to elope together. The night they bade
adieu to Ffraddle and all it held is well known to young and old of
every generation. They crept from their rooms at midnight and met at the
top of the grand staircase, down which they proceeded to crawl on all
fours. A few moments later they were on a sturdy mare, she riding
pillion, he riding anyhow. Not a sound had been heard, not a dog had
barked, not a bird had called. Once, Sheepmeadow informs us, Lady
Ffraddle turned over in her sleep.[12] Poor, unsuspecting mother! On and
on through the snow rode the feckless couple. Once Sarah rested her hand
lightly on her lover's arm. "Whither are we bound?" she inquired. "Only
the mare knows that," Julius replied, and in shaken silence they rode
on.

H