"What if I frighten her away? No, no, I must not disturb her peace so suddenly… Vivian. She will help me. She knows her friend, and, besides, she and I have a pact… which, however, she herself has broken. Now Vivian is rich, she doesn't have to honour her word. Still, I'm sure she won't be cruel to me and will help me win Charlotte. I must go to her… but Kitty… My poor little Kitty! My leaving so soon would break her heart… But I must ask her if she can let me go: my mother will stay here. But not today. In a couple of days. No, a week. It would be cruel of me to leave so soon," decided Mr. Cranford, and returning to his desk, he put the paper away, took the letters he had received today out of the drawer, and opened the letter from Vivian, sealed with the Salton family crest. He quickly read the two pages, which were covered with his cousin's beautiful, somewhat sharp handwriting, but he found no hint of her decision to marry Jeremy Wington, which again led him to think that Vivian was hiding her affair with his friend from him. And once again a shadow of displeasure and disappointment slipped across Anthony's face.

Putting the letter aside, Anthony picked up the second, tied with a thick thread, and cut the thread with a letter opener. But as his fingers unfolded the letter and the unfamiliar handwriting caught his eye, there was a loud knock.

– Anthony, are you busy? – came Lady Cranford's voice from behind the door.

– No, mother, come in," Anthony answered reluctantly, and laid the letter on the table.

His mother entered the room unheard. She walked with a smile to the table and stood beside it, for her son had been slow to offer her a chair far enough away for Lady Cranford to move it herself. The rudeness hurt her, but the woman decided not to give away her true feelings and hid the offence behind a calm smile.

– I have just had a conversation with Agnes," the Countess began, looking intently into her son's face. – She said that her younger sister Alexandra had recently made her debut. I hope you remember that girl? As beautiful as her sister. And she's young: she's seventeen years old… .

– Have you come to ask her to marry me? – Anthony interrupted his mother in a bored tone and, rising from the table, went to the window and stood with his back to her to let her know that he was not in the least interested in the conversation about Alexandra.

– Her father is giving her an eighteen thousand dowry…" Taking advantage of the fact that her son was not looking in her direction, Lady Cranford glanced furtively at the letter Anthony had printed but never read and ran her eyes over it. The brevity of what was written told her that it was only a note. – This girl would be beautiful…" When she had read the note in full, she suddenly faltered, turned pale, and looked at her son with incomprehension. But he did not hurry to turn round to her. The woman grabbed the note from the table with trembling hands. – Ah, here's where my correspondence with Mr. Brown has gone! – she exclaimed in a false cheerful tone, clutching the paper to her chest. – It seems to have come to you by mistake, my dear, but I take it back.

– As you wish," Anthony said in an indifferent tone.

– Well… Please think of Alexandra… But I have urgent business to attend to… Good day to you, my dear. – Lady Cranford turned round and hurried out of her son's room, taking with her and wishing to conceal from him the contents of the note which she had crumpled convulsively in her hands.

On entering her chambers, the Countess straightened the paper, carefully re-read the message, crumpled it up again, and threw it into the burning fireplace. The woman's face was dead-white, and one could easily read the very true disgust in it.

Darkness was falling on London, and the revelry was in full swing in the magnificent, huge Wingtons' mansion, and it seemed that the best-dressed ladies and gentlemen had no intention of sleeping that night. Musicians played tune after tune, the waxed parquet clattered under a hundred heels, and the air shook with the clinking of crystal glasses and plates. The house, lit by hundreds of candles, was stuffy, and all the windows were open wide. Servants dressed in beautiful livery swept through the corridors and between the dancers, bringing expensive golden champagne, wine as scarlet as blood, aged wine, and whiskey and brandy to the many guests invited to the ball. A ball given by the young Wington couple in honour of the consummation of their marriage.

In spite of the sudden and overwhelming news that Jeremy Wington, now the owner of a vast fortune, the desired groom even for the daughters of noble titled families, was married to the Countess of Cranford's well-known niece, that beautiful girl with hair the colour of flame, the rich ladies and gentlemen did not hesitate to send congratulations and presents to the young couple. All wished to show their attention and honour to young Wington and his lovely wife, for they remembered that not long ago they had treated the waif Vivian Cowell with disdain and even contempt, but hoped to erase this fact from her memory by expensive presents, flattering phrases, and false smiles. And when from the Wingtons came the elegant, gilded invitations to a ball (the very first that was organised in their rich house, because the late old man Wington, that miser, did not want to spend money on balls and preferred to go to balls and evenings arranged by others), the upper class could not refuse. The reasons were several: to establish good relations with the young rich man Wington, to see his huge, luxurious house, and, of course, to gaze at the red-haired upstart who had managed to twist the poor young man round her finger, who must not have noticed that he had fallen under her spell.

That Jeremy Wington was crazy about his beautiful wife was as evident as the fact that she was already well into her role as the life partner of an untold rich man, and was enjoying it: the dress in which she had given the ball was magnificent, embroidered with patterns, and sat on her beautiful figure as if it were a perfect fit. The young Mrs. Wington looked like a real model of modern fashion: her hair was braided into a beautiful plait, which in turn was fastened at the back of her head with an antique comb, and her beautiful white forehead was framed by fiery twisted strands, which gave her the appearance of a Greek goddess, and her emerald eyes shone proudly, as if to say, "Now I am one of you, and you dare not refuse to accept it!". And she was right: the recent waif had become too rich for high society not to accept her and treat her favourably, but still with some apprehension.