"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." With a gesture of real irritation my Husband sank down in his chair again and snatched up the paper. It was ten minutes before he spoke again. "Is it a front tooth?" he questioned with out lifting his eyes from the page. "It is," I said. When my Husband jumped up from his chair this time he showed no sign at all of ever intending to return to it. As he reached for his hat and coat and started for the door, he tried very hard to grin. But the effort was poor. This was no mere marital disagreement, but a real professional shock. "I simply can't stand it," he grinned. "One's prepared, of course, for a tragedy queen to sport a broken heart but when it comes to a broken tooth--!" "Wait till you see her!" I said. There was nothing else to say. "Wait till you see her!" Even with the door closed behind him he came back once more to tell me how he felt. "Oh!" he shivered. "O--H!" Truly if we hadn't gone out together the very next day and found George Keets I don't know what would have happened. Depression still hung very heavily over my Husband's heart. "Here it is almost February," he brooded, "and even with what we've got, we're still short the Celibate and the Singing Voice and the May Girl." It was just then that we turned the street corner and met George Keets. "Why--why the Celibate--of all persons!" we both gasped as in a single breath, and rushed upon him.