Jane and Vivian went to the latter's chambers, and Anthony was about to go into the house and give orders for his cousin's luggage when his mother's quiet but imperious voice stopped him halfway:

– Don't you dare even think about her, my son.

Anthony turned round to his mother, gave her a sarcastic smile and said:

– Mother, I am well aware of my position.

She grinned contentedly.

Anthony continued his way.

Lady Cranford hurried to her study and locked the door to reread her late sister's last letter once more. She wished she could feel pity for her niece, but, against her will, she felt only dislike for her.

– Here's your room, miss! I washed it to a shine this morning. Alas, the carpet isn't dishevelled… You've come so suddenly, miss… But I'll do it to-morrow! – Jane chirped as she led Vivian to the tall, wide white doors.

– Don't trouble yourself, Jane. I shall only sleep in these chambers. I didn't come all the way from Casterbridge to spend my time in my own rooms," Vivian reassured her: Jane was infinitely friendly, and it seemed to her that they might be friends. Vivian had left all her friends behind her in her native town, and in London she knew only her aunt and her cousin. And she longed for a kind soul to lean on and gossip with!

Jane, of course, was a maid of no birth, and Vivian was the daughter of a small nobleman. But Vivian knew that there were no ranks in friendship, only feelings. The girls were the same age, the same height, and both liked to watch people and then giggle at one person or another for no reason at all. Young, fun-loving heads.

– Oh miss, I'm sure you won't be bored! The season will soon begin! – Jane said. – Our ma'am gives such sumptuous receptions! So many guests!

– It's a sin for my aunt not to have such receptions when she has everything she needs! This house could hold hundreds of guests! – exclaimed Vivian with a laugh. – But, Jane, don't call me Miss; call me Vivian.

– Come, miss, what's the use of calling you by your first name to a servant? – Jane's astonishment was unbounded: this beauty was so kind! But still, she could not accept her excessive kindness: it was not proper for her, a simple maid, the daughter of a shoemaker and a washerwoman, to call this beautiful miss with such familiarity! – But if you wish, I will call you Miss Vivian.

– Well, it's many times better than Miss Cowell," said Vivian with a laugh. – And yet, what a huge and beautiful house my aunt has!

The compliment was sincere: the three-storey stone house was like a medieval castle, but full of light. Lady Cranford loved daylight, so heavy green curtains of real velvet were only drawn over the large, clear-glass windows when night fell on the town. The white marble floors and staircases glistened with cleanliness (the lady of the house demanded that they be washed and polished every day). There were no carpets, but the walls were decorated with modest but elegant mouldings and beautiful paintings, both originals and copies of famous artists. Every twenty paces there were white marble sculptures, copies of the works of famous sculptors. Lady Cranford loved art and spent a great deal of money on paintings and sculptures. After the death of her husband, who died of consumption ten years ago, she transformed the once dark and gloomy house into a place of light and art. Every piece of furniture, every curl in the carved ceiling, every vase of flowers – everything had been thought out to the last detail. And yet, this bright, beautiful house breathed a dead coldness and seemed uninhabited.