Her Diary: Being the Daily Journal of the Sub-Deb

Some of the girls are coming back. They stragle in, and put the favers
they got at Cotillions on the dresser, and their holaday gifts, and each
one relates some amorus experience while at home. Dear dairy, is there
somthing wrong with me, that Love has passed me by? I have had offers
of Devotion but none that apealed to me, being mostly either to young or
not atracting me by physicle charm. I am not cold, although frequently
acused of it, Beneath my fridgid Exterior beats a warm heart. I intend
to be honest in this dairy, and so I admit it. But, except for passing
Fansies--one being, alas, for a married man--I remain without the Divine
Passion.

What must it be to thrill at the aproach of the loved Form? To harken
to each ring of the telephone bell, in the hope that, if it is not
the Idolised Voice, it is at least a message from it? To waken in the
morning and, looking around the familiar room, to muze: "Today I may see
him--on the way to the Post Office, or rushing past in his racing car."
And to know that at the same moment HE to is muzing: "Today I may see
her, as she exercises herself at basket ball, or mounts her horse for a
daily canter!"

Although I have no horse. The school does not care for them, considering
walking the best exercise.