Peter Ibbetson Page #2

And now, sir,

we will be on our way

to your new home.

What new home?

Wait until you see it.

But where is it?

Now, that's a surprise.

The home is not here

in Paris?

No!

But I don't want to go away

from Paris.

Little boys don't choose

where they want to go.

But I can't leave Paris.

And why not?

Be-because I can't.

What?

I can't.

The desperate love

between children.

Is there anything in the worid

forgotten so soon?

I would say, Colonel,

it was forgotten

the last thing of all.

All right, run along.

Say goodbye

to your little playmate.

Hello.

Hello.

Are you going away

somewhere, too?

No.

Thank you

for looking after him.

Where is the lad?

Gogo!

Wait right there, now!

In here.

Come back here!

You young scamp.

Don't take me away. Mimsey!

Don't. Mimsey!

Mimsey, I'll be back.

Don't! Don't take me away.

Don't! Mimsey!

Don't take me. Don't!

Gogo?

What sort of name is that?

It's my name.

Your name?

Who gave it to you?

She did.

Here, stop it, lad.

What's your real name?

Pierre.

Pierre Pasquier.

No. No. That will never do.

Your mother was English.

She was an lbbetson.

And you're going

to be English, too.

An English gentleman

that I shall be proud of.

I have it. Peter!

Yes, your name

shall be Peter.

Yes.

Yes. Peter.

You may take my family name

and be Peter Forsythe,

or you can take

your mother's name.

I'll take my mother's name.

Very well, then.

From now on, your name shall

be Peter lbbetson.

Leaving early, huh?

Yes, but I'm leaving

by Greenwich time,

not Slade's time.

It's five minutes

to six now.

Fast in the morning

and slow at night.

What difference does it make

what time it is?

What's that?

Nothing... nothing.

Look here, Peter,

why do you keep saying

things like that for?

As if you had

some kind of joke

that no one else knew?

No reason,

no reason at all.

You know,

I think there's

something wrong with you.

Maybe you should come along

with us oftener and forget it.

Where?

Well, there's all London

and the whole night.

We begin with gin bitters

and barmaids,

and end up with

an aching head.

What's wrong with that?

I don't know.

Well, wh-what else

is there to do?

Nothing.

Well, I'd rather have

barmaids and gin

than nothing.

I'd rather have nothing.

Although I give you,

it's better than

having an uncle

that talks of nothing

but hocks and spavins!

There he goes again!

Well, have it your own way.

You can stay here

and work if you like,

we're off.

Goodbye.

Pull down the shades

and lock the door, Peter.

That's a silly looking...

Bless me.

Bless my soul.

What was that?

Uh, I'm sorry, sir.

I threw something.

Bless my soul.

Oh, it's quite all right,

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