“Round where?”
“Well, anywhere: just to have one more walk. The very last.” George Flack had got up too and stood there looking at her with his bright eyes, his hands in the pockets of his overcoat. As she hesitated he continued: “Then I’m not such a friend after all.”
She rested her eyes a moment on the carpet; then raising them: “Where would you like to go?”
“You could render me a service—a real service—without any inconvenience probably to yourself. Isn’t your portrait finished?”
“Yes, but he won’t give it up.”
“Who won’t give it up?”
“Why Mr. Waterlow. He wants to keep it near him to look at it in case he should take a fancy to change it. But I hope he won’t change it—it’s so lovely as it is!” Francie made a mild joke of saying.
“I hear it’s magnificent and I want to see it,” said George Flack.
“Then why don’t you go?”
“I’ll go if you’ll take me; that’s the service you can render me.”