This sociability and inclination to talk the matter out, and, I may
say, a certain amount of innocence and lack of worldly wisdom into the
bargain, betrayed her occasionally into small improprieties of conduct
that were not to be excused, and would possibly not have been forgiven
in any one but Ideala. But such things were allowed in her as certain
things are allowed in certain people--not because the things are right
in themselves, but because the people who do them see no harm in them.
There are people, too, who seem to enjoy the privilege of making wrong
right by doing it. Society, however, only accords this privilege to a
limited and distinguished few.

When Ideala saw for herself that she had done an unjustifiable thing
she was very ready to confess it. I always fancied she had some latent
idea of making atonement in that way. It never mattered how much a
story told against herself, nor how much malicious people might make of
it to her discredit; she told all, inimitably, and with scrupulous
fidelity to fact.

One day she was standing waiting for a train at the station at York,
and in her absent way she fixed her eyes on a gentleman who was walking
about the platform.

Presently he went up to her, and, without any apology or show of
respect, remarked: "I am sure I have seen you before."

"Probably," Ideala rejoined, as if the occurrence were the most natural
thing in the world, "but I do not remember you. Perhaps if I heard your
name----?"

"Oh, I don't suppose you ever heard my name," he said.