The White Cliffs by Alice Duer Miller

It happened the first evening I was there. Someone was giving a ball in Belgrave Square. At Belgrave Square, that most Victorian spot.-- Lives there a novel-reader who has not At some time wept for those delightful girls, Daughters of dukes, prime ministers, and earls, In bonnets, berthas, bustles, buttoned basques, Hiding behind their pure Victorian masks Hearts just as hot--hotter perhaps than those Whose owners now abandon hats and hose. Who has not wept for Lady Joan or Jill Loving against her noble parent's will A handsome guardsman, and to her alarm Feels her hand kissed behind a potted palm At Lady Ivry's ball the dreadful night Before his regiment goes off to fight; And sees him the next morning, in the park, Complete in busbee, marching to embark. I had read freely, even as a child, Not only Meredith and Oscar Wilde But many novels of an earlier day-- _Ravenshoe_, _Can You Forgive Her_, _Vivien Grey_, Ouida, The Duchess, Broughton's _Red As A Rose_, _Guy Livingstone_, Whyte-Melville--Heaven knows What others. Now, I thought, I was to see Their habitat, though like the Miller of Dee, I cared for none, and no one cared for me.