Then what is it?
It isn t for a lady to tell.
Oh, very well, Peter said, a little nettled. Perhaps Tinker Bell
will tell me.
Oh yes, Tinker Bell will tell you, Wendy retorted scornfully. She is
an abandoned little creature.
Here Tink, who was in her bedroom, eavesdropping, squeaked out
something impudent.
She says she glories in being abandoned, Peter interpreted.
He had a sudden idea. Perhaps Tink wants to be my mother?
You silly ass! cried Tinker Bell in a passion.
She had said it so often that Wendy needed no translation.
I almost agree with her, Wendy snapped. Fancy Wendy snapping! But she
had been much tried, and she little knew what was to happen before the
night was out. If she had known she would not have snapped.
None of them knew. Perhaps it was best not to know. Their ignorance
gave them one more glad hour; and as it was to be their last hour on
the island, let us rejoice that there were sixty glad minutes in it.
They sang and danced in their night-gowns. Such a deliciously creepy
song it was, in which they pretended to be frightened at their own
shadows, little witting that so soon shadows would close in upon them,
from whom they would shrink in real fear. So uproariously gay was the
dance, and how they buffeted each other on the bed and out of it! It
was a pillow fight rather than a dance, and when it was finished, the
pillows insisted on one bout more, like partners who know that they may
never meet again. The stories they told, before it was time for Wendy s
good-night story! Even Slightly tried to tell a story that night, but
the beginning was so fearfully dull that it appalled not only the
others but himself, and he said gloomily:
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