"Father, we want to dance." "Dance away, my little man," said Peter, who was in high good humour.
"But we want you to dance." Peter was really the best dancer among them, but he pretended to be scandalised.
"Me! My old bones would rattle!" "And mummy too." "What," cried Wendy, "the mother of such an armful, dance!" "But on a Saturday night," Slightly insinuated.
It was not really Saturday night, at least it may have been, for they had long lost count of the days; but always if they wanted to do anything special they said this was Saturday night, and then they did it.
"Of course it is Saturday night, Peter," Wendy said, relenting.
"People of our figure, Wendy!" "But it is only among our own progeny [children]." "True, true." So they were told they could dance, but they must put on their nighties first.
"Ah, old lady," Peter said aside to Wendy, warming himself by the fire and looking down at her as she sat turning a heel, "there is nothing more pleasant of an evening for you and me when the day's toil is over than to rest by the fire with the little ones near by." "It is sweet, Peter, isn't it ?" Wendy said, frightfully gratified.
"Peter, I think Curly has your nose." "Michael takes after you." She went to him and put her hand on his shoulder.
"Dear Peter," she said, "with such a large family, of course, I have now passed my best, but you don't want to [ex]change me, do you ?" "No, Wendy." Certainly he did not want a change, but he looked at her uncomfortably, blinking, you know, like one not sure whether he was awake or asleep.
"Peter, what is it ?" "I was just thinking," he said, a little scared.

"It is only make-believe, isn't it, that I am their father ?" "Oh yes," Wendy said primly [formally and properly].
"You see," he continued apologetically, "it would make me seem so old to be their real father." "But they are ours, Peter, yours and mine." "But not really, Wendy ?" he asked anxiously.
"Not if you don't wish it," she replied; and she distinctly heard his sigh of relief.

"Peter," she asked, trying to speak firmly, "what are your exact feelings to [about] me ?" "Those of a devoted son, Wendy." "I thought so," she said, and went and sat by herself at the extreme end of the room.
"You are so queer," he said, frankly puzzled, "and Tiger Lily is just the same.

There is something she wants to be to me, but she says it is not my mother." "No, indeed, it is not," Wendy replied with frightful emphasis.

Now we know why she was prejudiced against the redskins.
"Then what is it ?" "It isn't for a lady to tell." "Oh, very well," Peter said, a little nettled.