"A true one, I think," said Ida. "Something that happened to you
yourself, if you please. You must remember a great many things, being
so old."

And Ida said this in simple good-faith, believing it to be a
compliment.

"It is quite true," said Mrs. Overtheway, "that one remembers many
things at the end of a long life, and that they are often those things
which happened a long while ago, and which are sometimes so slight in
themselves that it is wonderful that they should not have been
forgotten. I remember, for instance, when I was about your age, an
incident that occurred which gave me an intense dislike to a special
shade of brown satin. I hated it then, and at the end of more than
half a century, I hate it still. The thing in itself was a mere folly;
the people concerned in it have been dead for many years, and yet at
the present time I should find considerable difficulty in seeing the
merits of a person who should dress in satin of that peculiar hue.

"What was it?" asked Ida.

"It was not amber satin, and it was not snuff-coloured satin; it was
one of the shades of brown known by the name of feuille-morte, or
dead-leaf colour. It is pretty in itself, and yet I dislike it."

"How funny," said Ida, wriggling in the arm-chair with satisfaction.
"Do tell me about it."

"But it is not funny in the least, unfortunately," said Mrs.