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of the smitten and dedicated state. He never forgot himself,
as I say; and so he never forgot to be graceful and tender,
to wear the appearance-which presented indeed no difficul-
ty-of stirred senses and deep intentions. He was immensely
pleased with his young lady; Madame Merle had made him
a present of incalculable value. What could be a finer thing
to live with than a high spirit attuned to softness? For would
not the softness be all for one’s self, and the strenuousness
for society, which admired the air of superiority? What
could be a happier gift in a companion than a quick, fan-
ciful mind which saved one repetitions and reflected one’s
thought on a polished, elegant surface? Osmond hated to
see his thought reproduced literally-that made it look stale
and stupid; he preferred it to be freshened in the reproduc-
tion even as ‘words’ by music. His egotism had never taken
the crude form of desiring a dull wife; this lady’s intelli-
gence was to be a silver plate, not an earthen one-a plate
that he might heap up with ripe fruits, to which it would
give a decorative value, so that talk might become for him
a sort of served dessert. He found the silver quality in this
perfection in Isabel; he could tap her imagination with his
knuckle and make it ring. He knew perfectly, though he had
not been told, that their union enjoyed little favour with the
girl’s relations; but he had always treated her so completely
as an independent person that it hardly seemed necessary
to express regret for the attitude of her family. Nevertheless,
one morning, he made an abrupt allusion to it. ‘It’s the dif-
ference in our fortune they don’t like,’ he said. ‘They think
I’m in love with your money.’

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