"To Marian Thatcher—God bless her!" Cosden repeated after him; and Huntington turned away to chuckle to himself that he had paid homage to the reality while his friend believed him to be giving tribute to the figment. He blessed the figment for bestowing her name upon the reality!
"Now for the renunciation," Huntington said solemnly, and one by one he laid the long-cherished trophies upon the fire, watching in silence their reduction to the elements. His success filled him with a spirit of bravado. The opportunity might never come again.
"Once again, Connie old boy!" he cried.
He held out his disengaged hand and grasped Cosden's as he lifted his refilled glass.
"To Marian Thatcher—God bless her!"
Cosden still held his glass after his friend placed his on the table.
"Would it seem a sacrilege if I asked you to join me in a toast?" he asked, with an unnatural hesitation in his voice.
"Why,—no," Huntington said wonderingly. "Fill up the glasses again."
Then he held his high, waiting for his friend to speak.
"To Edith Stevens," Cosden finally blurted out,—"God bless her!"