ional honour and imputed
virtue of being in love. It was the tragic part of happiness; one's
right was always made of the wrong of some one else.

The elation of success, which surely now flamed high in Osmond, emitted
meanwhile very little smoke for so brilliant a blaze. Contentment, on
his part, took no vulgar form; excitement, in the most self-conscious of
men, was a kind of ecstasy of self-control. This disposition, however,
made him an admirable lover; it gave him a constant view 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 difficulty--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, fanciful 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 reproduction even as "words" by music. His
egotism had never taken the crude form of desiring a dull wife; this
lady's intelligence 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 difference in our
fortune they don't like," he said. "They think I'm in love with your
money."

"Are you speaking of my aunt--of my cousin?" Isabel asked. "How do you
know what they think?"

"You've not told me they're pleased, and when I wrote to Mrs. Touchett
the other day she never answered my note. If they had been delighted I
should have had some sign of i