"Oh—twenty-five, perhaps," I shrugged.
With a gesture of impatience my Husband threw down his paper and began to poke the fire.
"Oh, Pshaw!" he said, "is our whole dramatic endeavor going to be wrecked by the monotony of everybody being 'twenty- five'?"
"Well—call it 'thirty-five' if you'd rather," I conceded. "Or a hundred and five! Arm Woltor wouldn't care! That's the remarkable thing about her face," I hastened with some fervor to explain. "There's no dating on it! This calamity that has happened to her,—whatever it is, has wrung her face perfectly dry of all contributive biography except the mere structural fact of at least reasonably conservative birth and breeding."
A little bit abruptly my Husband dropped the fire-tongs.
"You like this Ann Woltor, don't you?" he said.
"I like her tremendously," I acknowledged.
"Tremendously as a person and tremendously for the part!" I insisted.
"Yet there's something about it that worries you?" quizzed my Husband not unamiably.
"There is," I said, "just one thing. She's got a broken tooth."