“Well, it would serve you right, I think, if I were,” she answered, judicially. “You know you were horribly stupid yesterday.”
“I’m afraid I was,” he answered, meekly; “only I can’t help being so frightened on the water; I do try not to mind,—I do indeed,—but trying doesn’t seem any good.”
Queenie smiled rather severely.
“Well, if you can’t help it, you can’t, I suppose. But you can help being a hypocrite, I hope.”
Bertie looked much astonished.
“A hypocrite!”
“Yes; you know what that is, don’t you?”
“Yes—but—I didn’t know I was one. I don’t understand you, Queenie.”
“Don’t you? Well, I can soon explain. Do you remember when Phil ran away from school and was going to hide and have a lot of fun, what a fuss you made about being brave and not afraid of things, and how you spoilt everything by making him tell papa straight out? Well, after all that lecturing, of course, I expected you to be as brave as a lion yourself, instead of which you turn out a horrid little coward, and nearly get the boys into a great big row because you are such a coward. That’s the sort of thing I hate!” and the little lady stamped her foot imperiously, having talked herself into a good deal of excitement. “I like people to be brave, not to talk brave, and then turn awful cowards when the time comes to try.”
Bertie stood humbly before the angry little girl, feeling very much subdued by her vehemence, and not at all inclined to defend himself. He felt that there was a certain amount of injustice in the charge brought against him. He knew in his heart that he was not such a dreadful coward as she thought him, although he could not control his terror in a boat. But her argument was put in a fashion that made it difficult to answer; and it was only after a very long pause that he said, slowly,—