"Why about her coming back!" said my Husband. "She was so absolutely determined not to come back! I never in my life saw such stubbornness! And if she once got away I knew perfectly well that she never would come back! That she'd drop out of sight just as—And such crying!" he interrupted himself with apparent irrelevance. "Everything smashed up altogether at once!—Hadn't cried before, she said, for eight years!"
"Well, it's time she cried, the poor dear!" I affirmed sincerely. "But——"
"But I couldn't bring her back to the house!" insisted my Husband. "Not crying so, not arguing so!"
"No, of course not," I agreed.
"I kept thinking she'd stop!" shivered my Husband.
"Jack," I asked quite abruptly, "Who is Ann Woltor?"
"Search me!" said my Husband, "I never saw her before."
"You—never saw her—before!" I stammered. "Why—why you called her by name!—you——"
"I knew her face," said my Husband. "I've seen her picture. In London it was. In Hal Ferry's studio. Fifteen years ago if it's a day. A huge charcoal sketch all swoops and smouches.— Just a girl holding up a small hand-mirror to her astonished face.—'The woman with the broken tooth' it was called."
"Fifteen years ago?" I gasped. "'The—the woman with the broken tooth!' What a—what a name for a picture!