"Now, papa, there is something wrong with her. She was crying all yesterday afternoon, and refused to give me any reason for it. Is it possible that her father or young Pierre could have said anything to her?"
"My dear little girl, why do you worry your pretty head over such things? Renée is as happy as she can be."
"She may be now, papa; but she certainly was not so yesterday."
"Do not trouble yourself about what happened yesterday. Sufficient for the day is the—you know—headache thereof, as our friend Marcel would say."
"Oh, papa, it is nothing to joke about and make fun of" replied Céleste pouting.
"I am not joking, my child, I assure you I have not been so deadly serious since my last evening at one of the English comic theatres. Now, Riche, I have something important to write, so I will leave this child in your care till dinner; just see that she gets some of those silly ideas about Renée out of her head."
So saying he leaned over and gently kissed his daughter on the forehead, and smilingly excusing himself, walked off to the library. As soon as her father had left, Céleste feeling that she had been treated as if she were still a child, turned to her companion.
"Now, Dr. Riche, you can see for yourself that papa will not tell me anything, and is only trifling with me. I want your confidence. I am sure that there is some trouble brewing for Renée. Is not that your opinion?"
"I must confess that it is, mademoiselle, now that you ask me in confidence, but I have no evidence, nothing definite to go on."