“Not it,” said Peter; “it's a jolly good thing it wasn't you was hurt. I'm glad it was ME. There! If it had been you, you'd have been lying on the sofa looking like a suffering angel and being the light of the anxious household and all that. And I couldn't have stood it.”
“No, I shouldn't,” said Bobbie.
“Yes, you would,” said Peter.
“I tell you I shouldn't.”
“I tell you you would.”
“Oh, children,” said Mother's voice at the door. “Quarrelling again? Already?”
“We aren't quarrelling—not really,” said Peter. “I wish you wouldn't think it's rows every time we don't agree!” When Mother had gone out again, Bobbie broke out:—
“Peter, I AM sorry you're hurt. But you ARE a beast to say I'm a prig.”
“Well,” said Peter unexpectedly, “perhaps I am. You did say I wasn't a coward, even when you were in such a wax. The only thing is—don't you be a prig, that's all. You keep your eyes open and if you feel priggishness coming on just stop in time. See?”
“Yes,” said Bobbie, “I see.”