It is humiliating to have to confess that this conceit of Peter was one of his most fascinating qualities. To put it with brutal frankness, there never was a cockier boy.

But for the moment Wendy was shocked. ‘You conceit,’ she exclaimed, with frightful sarcasm; ‘of course I did nothing!’

‘You did a little,’ Peter said carelessly, and continued to dance.

‘A little!’ she replied with hauteur; ‘if I am no use I can at least withdraw’; and she sprang in the most dignified way into bed and covered her face with the blankets.

To induce her to look up he pretended to be going away, and when this failed he sat on the end of the bed and tapped her gently with his foot. ‘Wendy,’ he said, ‘don’t withdraw. I can’t help crowing, Wendy, when I’m pleased with myself.’ Still she would not look up, though she was listening eagerly. ‘Wendy,’ he continued, in a voice that no woman has ever yet been able to resist, ‘Wendy, one girl is more use than twenty boys.’

Now Wendy was every inch a woman, though there were not very many inches, and she peeped out of the bedclothes.

‘Do you really think so, Peter?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘I think it’s perfectly sweet of you,’ she declared, ‘and I’ll get up again’; and she sat with him on the side of the bed. She also said she would give him a kiss if he liked, but Peter did not know what she meant, and he held out his hand expectantly.

‘Surely you know what a kiss is?’ she asked, aghast.

‘I shall know when you give it to me,’ he replied stiffly; and not to hurt his feelings she gave him a thimble.

‘Now,’ said he, ‘shall I give you a kiss?’ and she replied with a slight primness, ‘If you please.’ She made herself rather cheap by inclining her face toward him, but he merely dropped an acorn button into her hand; so she slowly returned her face to where it had been before, and said nicely that she would wear his kiss on the chain round her neck. It was lucky that she did put it on that chain, for it was afterwards to save her life.

When people in our set are introduced, it is customary for them to ask each other’s age, and so Wendy, who always liked to do the correct thing, asked Peter how old he was. It was not really a happy question to ask him; it was like an examination paper that asks grammar, when what you want to be asked is Kings of England.

‘I don’t know,’ he replied uneasily, ‘but I am quite young.’ He really knew nothing about it; he had merely suspicious, but he said at a venture, ‘Wendy, I ran away the day I was born.’

Wendy was quite surprised, but interested; and she indicated in the charming drawing-room manner, by a touch on her nightgown, that he could sit nearer her.

‘It was because I heard father and mother,’ he explained in a low voice, ‘talking about what I was to be when I became a man.’ He was extraordinarily agitated now. ‘I don’t want ever to be a man’, he said with passion. ‘I want always to be a little boy and to have fun. So I ran away to Kensington Gardens and lived a long long time among the fairies.’

She gave him a look of the most intense admiration, and he thought it was because he had run away, but it was really because he knew fairies. Wendy had lived such a home life that to know fairies struck