"The King—God bless him!" she said.
The King had picked up his own glass, mechanically, and half risen to his feet.
He set his glass down again on the table, now with a shaking hand, and sank back into his chair. Then, hardly conscious of what he was doing, he bowed, first to Judith, and then to Uncle Bond. He could not see their faces. There was a mist before his eyes—
"The King!"
Their usual toast. They drank it nightly, then, thinking of him. For them it had a special, personal meaning. With them it was not only a pledge of loyalty. With them it was a pledge of affection, too.
The King was profoundly moved.
Then, suddenly, his brain raced furiously.
"The King!"
Judith and Uncle Bond would not be alone in drinking the toast that evening. All over the world, wherever men and women, of the true English stock, were gathered together, would not the toast be drunk, that evening, with a special enthusiasm, a special meaning? Not with the special, personal meaning, the special, personal affection, with which Judith and Uncle Bond had drunk it. That was outside the question. The toast was a bigger thing than any personal affection, than any personal feeling. It was a bigger thing than—any King—
"The King!"