"I shall never forget her shriek when the flame rose, nor the dreary misery of her look when, afterwards, she collected her husband’s ashes, and, being only a peasant, was stripped of her fine garments, stripped of her ornaments, stripped of all that made life bearable from her limited point of view, to begin a new life of drudgery working in the fields, scorned and mocked by all, an unclean being to be stoned by the very boys in the street because, as a widow, she had lost her caste. "Experiences like these wrench you out of yourself, and make you thank God you are not God to judge between the sins and errors of nations and of individuals. You and I rebel at drinking our cup of vinegar and gall because we are merely human, and so don’t like the bitter draught. But it is because sin came first, that there is so much suffering now. Better drink the bitter cup to its dregs here than pay the penalty of drinking it hereafter. And whether or no it comforts us at the moment, the light of faith is still ours. ’May we walk therein until the day of eternal light breaks forth, and the shadows and figures pass away.’" "You’ve been worrying again," said Lady Wereminster, returning. "Don’t. Nothing in the world is worth worrying about more than half-an-hour. _Worrying_ about, I said, not grieving over. Legitimate grief at a legitimate blow is one thing—racking your brains out adjusting something which ought never to have gone askew is another. Worry puts a spoke in the wheel of thought; it may stop the machinery from moving. And then——" She shrugged her shoulders significantly. "I don’t think any self-respecting person can be well in this weather," said Evelyn; "it would be rather rude not to acknowledge its power." "It’s no use looking at the door," said Lady Wereminster; "I am not going for hours yet. I returned with the intention of bullying you, and shan’t stir until I’ve done it. I am in a bad temper, and must wreak it on somebody. One ought to give way to one’s temper sometimes, you know, on the principle of a kettle boiling over and doing serious damage." "I’m quite impervious to your tempers," said Evelyn; "they are more easy to deal with than the amenities of other people!" "This is an unlucky day," said Lady Wereminster, seating herself. "Wherever I turn I run up against Dora Farquharson. Nothing annoys me more. I shopped in Sloane Street this morning—she was there. I lunched with Lady Ennly quite unexpectedly; unluckily, that dear idiot Creagh had run across Dora in the Park, and brought her on. She patted her husband on his back all luncheon time; metaphorically, of course—mercifully for him he was absent. If I were a caricaturist I should draw her putting him flat on his stomach across her knee and thumping him as if he were a troublesome infant. If that woman lived with Savonarola, she would bring him down eventually to the level of Simple Simon in the old nursery rhyme."