Lady Lothwell had at first laughed quite gaily at certain long lists she found her mother occupied with--though this, it is true, was in early days.
But Robin, even while whirled by the maelstrom, could not cease thinking certain vague remote thoughts.

The splashing of fountains among flowers, and the sound of music and dancing were far away--but there was an echo to which she listened unconsciously as Donal Muir did.

Something she gave no name to.

But as the, as yet unheard, guns sent forth vibrations which reached far, there rose before her pictures of columns of marching men--hundreds, thousands, young, erect, steady and with clear eyes--marching on and on--to what--to what?
Would _every_ man go?
Would there not be some who, for reasons, might not be obliged--or able--or ready--until perhaps the, as yet hoped for, sudden end of the awful thing had come?
Surely there would be many who would be too young--or whose youth could not be spared because it stood for some power the nation needed in its future.
She had taken out and opened the lacquered box while thinking these things.

She was thinking them as she looked at the key in her hand.
"It is not quiet anywhere now," she said to herself.