They thought it was a sign of grief that he had ordered them to leave Rose’s room as it was, but it was not a sign of grief at all. It had been an impulse that had made him tell them to shut that door and leave it shut. He had simply wanted to assert himself and to give a reasonable order and be obeyed, and they had obeyed him, but it had not been an important matter until all of a sudden, in some mysterious way, the closed door had become extremely important.

He thought that once he got into that empty room by himself with the door closed, he would be able to think more clearly and to know something that he did not now know. Once in there, he might be able to remember more of her than — as she was now in his mind — something humble and busy about the house. Once in there, he might be able to find more to think of than that eternal acquiescence. Even the very last word she had said to him was “Yes.” There was nothing strange about that, she had always said yes, but unbroken acquiescence had not been indefinite enough for her; she had always, until that last yes, had to qualify even her yes — “Yes, all right,” “Yes, if you want to,” “Yes, I don’t mind, if you like. If you want to, I suppose so, yes.” But that final “Yes,” when he asked her should he send for the doctor, stood alone in his mind. He could hear her voice now, saying “Yes,” and he recalled that even as troubled as he had been he felt surprised, and maybe even pleased, that she was definite. It had been as though he heard her voice once again after a very long time, when she said “Yes” like that to him.