“What's your name?” he asked.
       “Wendy Moira Angela Darling,” she replied with some satisfaction. “What is your name?”
        “Peter Pan.”
       She was already sure that he must be Peter, but it did seem a comparatively short name.
       “Is that all?”
       “Yes,” he said rather sharply. He felt for the first time that it was a shortish name.
       “I'm so sorry,” said Wendy Moira Angela.
       “It doesn't matter,” Peter gulped.
       She asked where he lived.
       “Second to the right,” said Peter, “and then straight on till morning.”
       “What a funny address!”
       Peter had a sinking. For the first time he felt that perhaps it was a funny address.
       “No, it isn't,” he said.
       “I mean,” Wendy said nicely, remembering that she was hostess, “is that what they put on the letters?”
       He wished she had not mentioned letters.
       “Don't get any letters,” he said contemptuously.
       “But your mother gets letters?”
       “Don't have a mother,” he said. Not only had he no mother, but he had not the slightest desire to have one. He thought them very over-rated persons. Wendy, however, felt at once that she was in the presence of a tragedy.
       “O Peter, no wonder you were crying,” she said, and got out of bed and ran to him.
       “I wasn't crying about mothers,” he said rather indignantly. “I was crying because I can't get my shadow to stick on. Besides, I wasn't crying.”
       “It has come off?”
       “Yes.”
       Then Wendy saw the shadow on the floor, looking so draggled, and she was frightfully sorry for Peter. “How awful!” she said, but she could not help smiling when she saw that he had been trying to stick it on with soap. How exactly like a boy!
       Fortunately she knew at once what to do. “It must be sewn on,” she said, just a little patronizingly.
       “What's sewn?” he asked.
       “You're dreadfully ignorant.”
       “No, I'm not.”
       But she was exulting in his ignorance. “I shall sew it on for you, my little man,” she said, though he was tall as herself, and she got out her housewife [sewing bag], and sewed the shadow on to Peter's foot.
        “I daresay it will hurt a little,” she warned him.
       “Oh, I shan't cry,” said Peter, who was already of the opinion that he had never cried in his life. And he clenched his teeth and did not cry, and soon his shadow was behaving properly, though still a little creased.
       “Perhaps I should have ironed it,” Wendy said thoughtfully, but Peter, boy-like, was indifferent to appearances, and he was now jumping about in the wildest glee. Alas, he had already forgotten that he owed his bliss to Wendy. He thought he had attached the shadow himself. “How clever I am!” he crowed rapturously, “oh, the cleverness of me!”
       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.”