WENDY (breathlessly). Ought to be? Isn’t there?
PETER. Oh no. Children know such a lot now. Soon they don’t believe in fairies, and every time a child says ‘I don’t believe in fairies’ there is a fairy somewhere that falls down dead. (He skips about heartlessly.)
WENDY. Poor things!
PETER (to whom this statement recalls a forgotten friend). I can’t think where she has gone. Tinker Bell, Tink, where are you?
WENDY (thrilling). Peter, you don’t mean to tell we that there is a fairy in this room!
PETER (flitting about in search). She came with me. You don’t hear anything, do you?
WENDY. I hear—the only sound I hear is like a tinkle of bells.
PETER. That is the fairy language. I hear it too.
WENDY. It seems to come from over there.
PETER (with shameless glee). Wendy, I believe I shut her up in that drawer!
