"Oh, as for him," she said, "he is only a detail." I had still the idea that she spoke with a pitying intonation--as if she were speaking to a dog in pain. "He doesn't really count; not really. He will crumble up and disappear, very soon. You won't even remember him."
"But," I said, "you go about with him, as if you.... You are getting yourself talked about.... Everyone thinks--" ... The accusation that I had come to make seemed impossible, now I was facing her. "I believe," I added, with the suddenness of inspiration. "I'm certain even, that _he_ thinks that you ..."
"Well, they think that sort of thing. But it is only part of the game. Oh, I assure you it is no more than that."
I was silent. I felt that, for one reason or another, she wished me to believe.
"Yes," she said, "I want you to believe. It will save you a good deal of pain."
"If you wanted to save me pain," I maintained, "you would have done with de Mersch ... for good." I had an idea that the solution was beyond me. It was as if the controlling powers were flitting, invisible, just above my head, just beyond my grasp. There was obviously something vibrating; some cord, somewhere, stretched very taut and quivering. But I could think of no better solution than: "You must have done with him." It seemed obvious, too, that that was impossible, was outside the range of things that could be done--but I had to do my best. "It's a--it's vile," I added, "vile."
"Oh, I know, I know," she said, "for you.... And I'm even sorry. But it has to be gone on with. De Mersch has to go under in just this way. It can't be any other."
"Why not?" I asked, because she had paused. I hadn't any desire for enlightenment.
"It isn't even only Churchill," she said, "not even only that de Mersch will bring down Churchill with him. It is that he must bring down everything that Churchill stands for. You know what that is--the sort of probity, all the old order of things. And the more vile the means used to destroy de Mersch the more vile the whole affair will seem. People--the sort of people--have an idea that a decent man cannot be touched by tortuous intrigues. And the whole thing will be--oh, malodorous. You understand."
"I don't," I answered, "I don't understand at all."