What better virtue could be expected from a wife than a lively and imaginative mind that could make vain repetitions unnecessary, a mind that could reflect our own thoughts as if it were a polished and elegant mirror? However, Osmond hated the idea of being confronted with a faithful duplicate of his own thoughts, since that would have forced him to acknowledge how dull and stupid he was. He preferred to contemplate an enhanced reproduction of itself, improved in the same way in which melody improves lyrics. His egocentrism had never been uncouth enough as to lead him to desire a daft wife. His ideal wife’s intelligence needed to be like a silver tray and not like an earthen tray. A silver tray that could be decorated with ripe fruits, so as to turn any conversation into a delicious desert. In Isabel, he found that sort of silvery perfection.