“Oh, Peter, I AM so sorry,” said Bobbie, after a pause.
“That's all right,” said Peter, gruffly.
“It was ALL my fault,” said Bobbie.
“Rot,” said Peter.
“If we hadn't quarrelled, it wouldn't have happened. I knew it was wrong to quarrel. I wanted to say so, but somehow I couldn't.”
“Don't drivel,” said Peter. “I shouldn't have stopped if you HAD said it. Not likely. And besides, us rowing hadn't anything to do with it. I might have caught my foot in the hoe, or taken off my fingers in the chaff-cutting machine or blown my nose off with fireworks. It would have been hurt just the same whether we'd been rowing or not.”
“But I knew it was wrong to quarrel,” said Bobbie, in tears, “and now you're hurt and—”
“Now look here,” said Peter, firmly, “you just dry up. If you're not careful, you'll turn into a beastly little Sunday-school prig, so I tell you.”
“I don't mean to be a prig. But it's so hard not to be when you're really trying to be good.”
(The Gentle Reader may perhaps have suffered from this difficulty.)