He walked over to the window, where he stood looking out at her garden. It was only a patch of grass, edged with flower beds and bounded by gray cement walls that she had disguised with ivy and another creeper that had a red pointed leaf. It was just a patch, and she had spent a good part of her life trying to make it nice, and his son had spent his childhood in it, and he himself had spent all his summer holidays sitting out there in a deck chair. They never went away anywhere for a holiday because it cost money to go away, and in any case they did not like to leave the house alone.

“I’m going down to put the kettle on now,” she said.

He turned and looked at her. She was getting up out of her chair. She did not get out of the chair gracefully but she got out of it easily, without helping herself with her hands, and when she stood up she stood up straight.

“Tell me something,” he said. “You remember the hyacinth I brought you one time. What became of it?”

“The blue hyacinth,” she said. “It did very well after I put it in the big pot. I showed it to you. It had a lovely bloom.”

“And where is it now?” he asked. “Did you put it out in the garden?”

“Oh, no. Hyacinths go, Hubert. They only have one season. You have to get new bulbs every year.”

“I’ll get you another one,” he said. “I’ll get it for you tomorrow. I’ll bring it home with me tomorrow night.”

“Oh, you’d never find a hyacinth this time of the year,” she said. “Only in the spring you get hyacinths, and this is September.”

“Oh,” he said. “I see. I forgot for a minute.”

“I’m sorry, Hubert,” she said.

He said, “It’s all right.”

“What put the hyacinth into your mind?” she asked.

“Nothing. I just happened to think of it,” he said.

She went to the door.

“Will you light the fire for me?” she asked. “And I’ll go on down.” She hesitated, as though he might say no.

“I’ll light it,” he said. “Go on, go on, do whatever you have to do.”