The forlorn subjunctive of the title applies to Caroline, seen in the first thirteen lines standing on a gold carpet in a gold lace dress under gilt-leaved chandeliers looking at others sparkling in gold and silver. But she has little use for splendor or for Robert de Lisle Devonshire, particularly after she learns she's been had by her relatives (she's rich, not poor) before she's to be had by Devonshire. She runs off and up to London, prompts a duel, falls in love with a Times reporter, and goes home to improve the working conditions of her tenants. How about that. This is still a chestnut even if emancipated from its shell and were this anything but what it is, you might have something to say about it.