Lady Diana came to look with some interest.  She had never had an opportunity of examining it closely before, and she now said, “I am much inclined to believe that this is the belt that used to be an heirloom in the Jerfield family, and which ought to be in yours, Lucy.”

My father’s first wife had been the last of the Jerfields, and I asked eager questions.  Lady Diana believed that “those unhappy young men” had made away with all their mother’s jewels, but she could tell no more, as our catastrophe had taken place while she was living at Killy Marey.  Her brother, she said, could tell us more; and so he did, enough to set Eustace on fire.

Yes, the belt had been well known.  It was not taken in the Armada, but in a galleon of the Peruvian plunder by an old Jerfield, who had been one of the race of Westward Ho! heroes.  The Jerfields had not been prosperous, and curious family jewels had been nearly all the portion of the lady who had married my father.  The sons had claimed them, and they were divided between them, and given to the two wives; and in the time of distress, when far too proud to accept aid from the father, as well as rather pleased at mortifying him by disposing of his family treasures, Alice and Dorothy Alison had gradually sold them off.  And, once in the hands of local jewellers, it was easy for the belt to pass into becoming the prize held by the winner in the Archery Club every year.  Lord Erymanth would go with Eustace the next morning to identify it; but what would be the use of that?  Eustace at first fancied he could claim it, but soon he saw that his proposal was viewed as so foolish that he devoured it, and talked of giving an equivalent; but, as Lord Erymanth observed, it would be very difficult to arrange this with an article of family and antiquarian value, in the hands of an archery club—­an impersonal body.

“The thing would be to win it,” said Viola.  “Could not some of us?”

“Well done, little Miss Tell,” returned Dermot.  “Hippo has won that same belt these four years, to my certain knowledge, except once, when Laurie Stympson scored two more.”

“I’ll practise every day; won’t you, Lucy?  And then, between us, there will be two chances.”

“I am sure I am very much nattered by Miss Tracy’s kindness,” put in Eustace; “but is the match solely between ladies?”

No, for the last two years, after a match between ladies and between gentlemen, there had a final one taken place between the two winners, male and female, in which Hippo had hitherto always carried off the glory and the belt.  So Eustace intimated his full intention of trying for himself, endeavouring to be very polite to Viola and me, but implying that he thought himself a far surer card, boasting of his feats as a marksman in the Bush, until Dora broke in, “Why, Eustace, that was Harry; wasn’t it, Harry?”

“Comme a l’ordinaire,” muttered Dermot.  Eustace made a little stammering about the thing being so near that no one could tell, and Dora referred again to Harold, who put her down with a muttered “Never mind” under his beard.