Henrietta had put aside her paper and was looking at him.
"Are you tired?" she asked.
He shook his head. He began to think about her. What did she do all day? Since Ruth had left, his desire to leave his wife had vanished. He paused, confused. She was weeping.
"What's the matter?" he asked. She lowered her head.
"Nothing," she said.
A vivid memory hurt him. He remembered kissing her for a first time in his mother's kitchen years ago. It seemed now that she had been alive and beautiful that evening. That was gone.
"Has anything happened," he asked softly.
Her head shook. He came to her side and looked at her. He felt helpless. What was there to make her cry?
"I don't know, George," she said as if answering his silent question. "Please forgive me. I just started to cry for nothing."
"Worried about something?" he pressed. He felt guilty. She was crying because of the things he had done. But what had he done? Nothing wrong. He had put the wrong things out of his life. And for her sake. Why should she weep about that, then? He was the one to weep. And she had her children. Her father was alive. He remained silent, recounting what he tried to consider anti-weeping reasons.