It struck him for a moment. “That’s what Chad also thinks.” “There _you_ are then—though it isn’t for him to complain of it!” “Oh he doesn’t complain of it,” said Strether. “That’s all that would be wanting! But apropos of what,” Maria went on, “did the question come up?” “Well, of his asking me what it is I gain.” She had a pause. “Then as I’ve asked you too it settles _my_ case. Oh you _have_,” she repeated, “treasures of imagination.” But he had been for an instant thinking away from this, and he came up in another place. “And yet Mrs. Newsome—it’s a thing to remember—_has_ imagined, did, that is, imagine, and apparently still does, horrors about what I should have found. I was booked, by her vision—extraordinarily intense, after all—to find them; and that I didn’t, that I couldn’t, that, as she evidently felt, I wouldn’t—this evidently didn’t at all, as they say, ‘suit’ her book. It was more than she could bear. That was her disappointment.” “You mean you were to have found Chad himself horrible?” “I was to have found the woman.” “Horrible?” “Found her as she imagined her.” And Strether paused as if for his own expression of it he could add no touch to that picture. His companion had meanwhile thought. “She imagined stupidly—so it comes to the same thing.” “Stupidly? Oh!” said Strether. But she insisted. “She imagined meanly.” He had it, however, better. “It couldn’t but be ignorantly.” “Well, intensity with ignorance—what do you want worse?” This question might have held him, but he let it pass. “Sarah isn’t ignorant—now; she keeps up the theory of the horrible.” “Ah but she’s intense—and that by itself will do sometimes as well. If it doesn’t do, in this case, at any rate, to deny that Marie’s charming, it will do at least to deny that she’s good.” “What I claim is that she’s good for Chad.” “You don’t claim”—she seemed to like it clear—“that she’s good for _you_.” But he continued without heeding. “That’s what I wanted them to come out for—to see for themselves if she’s bad for him.” “And now that they’ve done so they won’t admit that she’s good even for anything?” “They do think,” Strether presently admitted, “that she’s on the whole about as bad for me. But they’re consistent of course, inasmuch as they’ve their clear view of what’s good for both of us.” “For you, to begin with”—Maria, all responsive, confined the question for the moment—“to eliminate from your existence and if possible even from your memory the dreadful creature that _I_ must gruesomely shadow forth for them, even more than to eliminate the distincter evil—thereby a little less portentous—of the person whose confederate you’ve suffered yourself to become. However, that’s comparatively simple. You can easily, at the worst, after all, give me up.” “I can easily at the worst, after all, give you up.” The irony was so obvious that it needed no care. “I can easily at the worst, after all, even forget you.”