"We'll be lucky to see our 18th years married off to respectable gentlemen."
"You mean to say, dear Margeret, that you'll be lucky if..."
"Oh, Georgette, don't be unkind. After all, you may have dear Henry clutching at your apron strings but I, however,-"
"Have the love of a penniless writer and everything to show for it! Of course, Margeret-"
"I only meant"-
"Yes, do tell us what you mean!"
And on it went. She traced the rim of her teacup absently, all but oblivious to the idle chatter of her present company. Occasionally, she would catch snippets of what could pass for a relatable topic, something that might even evoke a passionate reply or addition. But before long it was swallowed in the overbearing jaws of insipid discussion. She joined her piers, it seemed, every afternoon routinely for this, if only for this, the need for structure and interaction. Margeret provided updates for her precarious entanglements. Georgette took the opportunity to contradict with biting conviction. Edith, for her part, would keep a score of sorts for each subtle triumph via wit between the two girls. Sometimes they discussed the difficulty of french against arithmetic. Sometimes it was the preposterous behavior of an older sibling. Young men were their favorite, and for this, Wendy was never completely uninterested.
As of this moment, the young ladies were discussing behavior conducive for the role of future husband. The subject began with the imprudence of Georgette versus Margeret's esteemed ideals.
"How could it possibly prosper? With nothing to his name, nothing for you to possibly build the foundation of a home on, it would crumble, Georgette, positively crumble!"
"We have love," the other girl said in a low tone. "As such, we can create miracles."
Margeret huffed. Romantic sentiment always created a stalemate.
All eyes turned to Edith, whose dreamy expression all but favored Georgette.
She seized the opportunity to continue. "With love," she grinned ,"we could roll in splendor, Fred and I. We'll raise children in the wild. Indonesia, maybe. A marvelous accomodation. They'll play in filth, barbaric at once, and dear the next."
And at this, Wendy smiled. Splendor indeed. Children in animal skins, bear and raccoon and fox. Never to know the weight of childhood's inevitable deadline. Dancing around roaring campfires to the beat of indian drums. Thick haired young boys in over-sized headresses. Said young boys omitting a roosters crow.
A giggle escaped her.
This, the first and only sound to be heard from Wendy in weeks, seized the attention of the other girls. It was painfully interesting.
"Wendy," Margeret chimed, "How wonderful of you to join us."
"Hm?" Wendy looked about, unprepared for the undivided attention of the table. "Oh. Excuse me."
"No, no," Georgette added, waving her hand daintily," Do let us into your thoughts. We're positively dying to know."
She'd never spoken of Never Land before. Not to anyone, save Michael and John. Father and Mother had long since done away with it.
"Well, I.."
"Good heavens," remarked Edith. "She's been holding out on us. Tell us, quickly, what's his name?"
All at once, the the intensity of the tiny tea party became all but unbearable. The girls leaned in, intent on every word. "It can't be true!"
Wendy cast a worried look. It was her fault, she supposed, for attending with such anti-social tendencies. And her company would never dismiss this.
"His name? His name."
"Albert!"
"Arthur!"
"You're all daft. I've seen her in the company of James plenty a time enough to know-"
"No." Wendy licked her lips. "His name is Peter."
"Is he prominent?"
"Is it scandalous?"
"Is he strapping?"
All eyes turned to Edith, who's face quickly became the shade of a ripe tomato. "For domestic purposes, of course," she muttered, slinking ever lower in her chair.
Wendy waited for her furious blushing to subside. How does one go about explaining love for a boy?
"For the last time, Tink, she's over in Engal-land!"
The pixie cast a disdainful look before turning her back. This'd been one of several, undeserved arguments.
"Waddya want me to say?" The reply was a dismissive wave of her tiny hand, and the shining dust that tumbled from it.
The eternal boy turned on his heel, spite and aggravation part of his puerile temperament. He would not argue with Tinkerbell, of all things. Not for this.
The prospect of stepping out, journeying for parts unknown was fast becoming unavoidable. He needed new sights, new experience..
...old feelings.
Feelings.
That was the word she, Wendy, had used. What a funny thing for him to think of.
He marched out of Hangman's Tree, taking with him both a sense of confusion and purpose.