“But, Peter—”
“No.”
And so the others had to be told.
“Peter isn’t coming.”
Peter not coming! They gazed blankly at him, their sticks over their backs, and on each stick a bundle. Their first thought was that if Peter was not going he had probably changed his mind about letting them go.
But he was far too proud for that. “If you find your mothers,” he said darkly, “I hope you will like them.”
The awful cynicism of this made an uncomfortable impression, and most of them began to look rather doubtful. After all, their faces said, were they not noodles to want to go?
“Now then,” cried Peter, “no fuss, no blubbering; good-bye Wendy”; and he held out his hand cheerily, quite as if they must really go now, for he had something important to do.
She had to take his hand, as there was no indication that he would prefer a thimble.
“You will remember about changing your flannels, Peter?” she said, lingering over him.
