"And this siren, this Danish elf, was in love with me! But I ruined everything, and now I am ready to do anything to win her heart again, so that when I asked for her hand, she would answer me with consent… And the reason for this is not her rich dowry. I don't want it. I want Charlotte and her warm, soft hands resting bashfully in mine," went through the young man's mind. The pencil froze in his hands. – But how do I win her heart? She is in love with the Duke of Nightingale! And, if she recognised my position and desire for a rich bride, Charlotte might decide that all I need is her dowry…"

– Uncle Anthony? Why are you silent? – Anthony's thoughts were interrupted by Victoria's somewhat offended voice.

– I'm sorry, my dear, I think I was thinking too deeply. – He ruffled the girl's hair. – 'Would you like me to tell you a secret?

– What secret, uncle? – The girl giggled softly.

– You're right, Victoria: the girl I drew has stolen my heart, and I hope to steal hers. But remember: it's a big secret, and I know you can keep secrets better than anyone else.

– So you're getting married soon? – Victoria jumped up and down in anticipation of her uncle's marriage to the mysterious girl from his drawing.

– I'll do my best to make sure it happens," Anthony smiled. – And I promise you'll be the only one allowed to sit in the front pew of the church, next to your grandmother Beatrice.

– Yes, yes!" Victoria laughed merrily. – And I promise to wear my prettiest dress to your wedding!

– But, my dear, remember that you will not be allowed to outshine my bride with your beauty! – Anthony winked at his niece, and the girl's gleeful laughter once again filled the spacious workshop.

Later, as he left the workshop, Anthony was eager to return to his chambers, sit at his desk and write a letter. A letter to Charlotte. But as he picked up the quill and dipped it into the ink, his mind failed to tell him the words with which it would be appropriate to begin the letter, so only a black blot fell on the clean white paper. Frowning, Anthony crumpled up the ruined paper, threw it on the floor, picked up a clean one, and stepped back to the window, thinking deeply.

It was not difficult for him to confess his love for Vivian: the words just jumped out of his throat. Anthony remembered that at that important and emotional moment his mind had betrayed him. But now, as he wished he could write to Charlotte to confess his feelings to her and beg her not to mock them, the young man's mind seemed to deny him that favour.

"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.