WENDY. Are you sure mothers are like that?
PETER. Yes.
WENDY. John, Michael! (She clasps them to her.)
FIRST TWIN (alarmed). You are not to leave us, Wendy?
WENDY. I must.
NIBS. Not to-night?
WENDY. At once. Perhaps mother is in half-mourning by this time! Peter, will you make the necessary arrangements?
(She asks it in the steely tones women adopt when they are prepared secretly for opposition.)
PETER (coolly). If you wish it.
(He ascends his tree to give the redskins their instructions. The lost boys gather threateningly round WENDY.)
CURLY. We won’t let you go!
WENDY (with one of those inspirations women have, in an emergency, to make use of some male who need otherwise have no hope). Tootles, I appeal to you.
TOOTLES (leaping to his death if necessary).
