"I understand," he interrupted. "Half a minute: I'll try to think of something."
Unconsciously he began to pace the way his feet had worn from door to window.
"How old are you?" he asked abruptly.
She started and instinctively lied: "Twenty...."
His surprise was unconcealed: "Really?"
She faltered unconvincing amendment: "Nearly."
"No matter," he said briskly. "It comes to the same thing: you're under twenty. The stage is no place for girls of your age. Don't you think you'd better chuck it—go home?"
Not trusting herself to speak, she shook her head, her eyes misty with disappointment.
"Besides, you're too good looking...."
Struck by her unresponsiveness, he paused to glance at her, and noted with consternation the glimmer of tears in her lashes.