Hubert had heard Rose returning to the kitchen, but he had not heard the kitchen door close, although he knew she must have closed it. Now there was no sign from the kitchen. “Well, that’s all right,” Hubert said, “let her do what she likes.” But he couldn’t go on sitting in his armchair forever, doing nothing. He couldn’t concentrate. He couldn’t read. He didn’t want to read. He didn’t want to do anything. He had made up his mind not to give in to her. Sooner or later somebody was going to have to make a move, but Hubert felt that the decision had been taken out of his hands, and that it was now up to Rose to make some gesture. When he first came home and saw her close the door against him, he had had the choice between going down to the kitchen or not going down there. Now that choice was gone. Instead of making the choice he had asserted himself, and any sign he gave now would mean that he had backed down. She would have to come out of the kitchen sometime. She would want to go out to have a last look at her garden. Bedtime would come. It was only a matter of waiting until the normal routine of the house washed him out of the corner he had been forced into. It would be all the same in a hundred years, but Hubert knew that as long as he lived he would never understand why Rose had closed the door against him like that. He no longer wondered why she had closed the door, he only wished he had not seen it close.