At the foot of the stair-case, just as she was about to enter the drawing-room, she caught sight of Dr. Riche.
"Ah, Mademoiselle Céleste, how charming you look—just like my favourite flower, a budding rose."
Céleste blushed almost as red as the roses she was wearing, and shyly tripping up to him whispered something in his ear.
"Certainly, my dear mademoiselle. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than a little chat tête-a-tête. Let us sit cosily at the shady end of the verandah where we can talk at our ease without fear of interruption."
As soon as they were comfortably seated Céleste's impatience and curiosity could no longer be restrained.
"Oh, doctor," she began impatiently, "I do so want you to find out for me whatever is the matter with Renée. She was weeping her heart out yesterday, and when I asked her what was the matter she put me off with some lame excuse about a headache, and then the moment that I left her she jumped up from her bed and locked the door. Of course she may have had a real headache, but people don't go into violent fits of weeping on that account, do they?"—and Céleste looked very wise (and very, very sweet, as Riche thought) while putting her question.
"Perhaps we might be able to look for some other cause," began Riche, when his companion broke in—
"I cannot help thinking that young Duval is mixed up in it, but then again what has it to do with Renée?"
Riche tapped the arm of the long verandah chair in which he was reclining, and remained in deep thought for a moment.
"Yes, I have it. Do you remember pinning the orchid in my button-hole to-day?" he asked at length.