And he took for granted that
his employer would never leave Bourcelles again. 'Thursday and
Saturday would be the best days,' he added. They were his half-
holidays, but he did not say so. Secretaries, he knew, did not have
half-holidays comme ca. 'Je suis son vrai secretaire,' he had told
Mademoiselle Lemaire, who had confirmed it with a grave mais oui. No
one but Mother heard the puzzled question one night when he was being
tucked into bed; it was asked with just a hint of shame upon a very
puckered little face--'But, Mummy, what really _is_ a sekrity?'
And so Rogers, from day to day, stayed on, enjoying himself and
resting. The City would have called it loafing, but in the City the
schedule of values was a different one. Meanwhile the bewilderment he
felt at first gradually disappeared. He no longer realised it, that
is. While still outside, attacked by it, he had realised the soft
entanglement. Now he was in it, caught utterly, a prisoner. He was no
longer mere observer. He was part and parcel of it. 'What does a few
weeks matter out of a whole strenuous life?' he argued. 'It's all to
the good, this holiday. I'm storing up strength and energy for future
use. My Scheme can wait a little. I'm thinking things out meanwhile.'
He often went into the forest alone to think his things out, and
'things' always meant his Scheme .
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