Flint copied the gesture, lifting his glass to Lily, the ice making a muted chinking sound against the side. Nodding to her suggestion, he trailed off after beginning: "Toast to...?"
To music. To the people who appreciate it. To ragtime and jazz. To the 1920's. To any decade other than this one. To hopes for a better future.
With some surprise -- for he'd meant to have her finish his incomplete thought, to propose the toast for them -- he heard himself answering his own question, his voice quiet in the crowd that seemed to press in on them; Flint leaned a little closer so he'd be heard. "To bygone eras." A small, embarrassed gesture to encompass the room, the party. It seemed, as it left his mouth, to hardly be an appropriate toast and he hadn't been quite sure where it came from.