Narcissa considers and just as quickly discards the notion of pointing out how inappropriate it is to ask a lady her age; she does quite understand the relevance. Besides, he said she looks lovely. She does, and how good of him to notice, in the midst of all of this, even if she's not yet ruling out disarming and stunning him. She's going to end up toting him home with her either way...

After a beat, she concedes, "Thirty-two." The Dark Lord has not yet risen again, and if she were at home in Wiltshire, she'd still be occupying her time with unimpeachable charity work and being torn between the thought that she'd rather like a daughter and that trying to get pregnant with Draco in the first place had been a bloody nightmare - the height of a war was hardly the time for it, and she'd been no Molly Weasley. (Perhaps it was different, for this Lucius, perhaps he lacks the vivid memory of what she threatened to do to his testicles if he ever so much as daydreamed the word 'baby' in her vicinity ever again, but suffice to say she's since become an expert on every birth control spell known to man.)

The jar is still important, however, and after considering for a moment, she puts her hands on her hips and tilts her head. "I'm going to repair that, if you'd be so kind as to step off the glass. If you're very polite, I'll have a look at your shoulder." Since presumably broken glass and heavy impact did him no favours.