“There’s no need for you to read those clippings, because we know the public news about Mike before you do . . . and Ben has given us a water promise to let us know any private news we need to know at once—and Mike of course knows this. But, Jubal, Mike can’t be hurt. If you would only visit the Nest, as we three have done, you would know this.”

“I have never been invited.”

“We didn’t have specific invitations, either; we just went. Nobody has to have an invitation to go to his own home . . . any more than they require invitations to come here. Like ‘The Death of the Hired Man.’ But you are just making excuses, Jubal, and poor ones . . . for Ben urged you to, and both Dawn and Duke sent word to you.”

“Mike hasn’t invited me.”

“Boss, that Nest belongs to me and to you quite as much as it does to Mike. Mike is first among equals . . . as you are here. Is this Abby’s home?”

“Happens,” he answered evenly, “that title already vests in her . . . with lifetime tenancy for me.” Jubal had changed his own will, knowing that Mike’s will now made it unnecessary to provide for any water brother of Mike. But not being sure of the exact “water” status of this nestling—save that she was usually wet—he had made redispositions in her favor and in favor of descendants, if any, of certain others. “I hadn’t intended to tell you, but there is no harm in your knowing.”

“Jubal . . . you’ve made me cry. And you’ve almost made me forget what I was saying. And I must say it. Mike would never hurry you, you know that. I grok he is waiting for fullness—and I grok that you are, too.”

“Mmm . . . I grok you speak rightly.”

“All right. I think you are especially glum today simply because Mike has been arrested again. But that’s happened many—”

“‘Arrested?’ I hadn’t heard about this! What goes on?” He added, “Damn it, girl—”

“Jubal, Jubal! Ben hasn’t called; that’s all we need to know. You know how many times Mike has been arrested—in the army, as a carney, other places—half a dozen times as a preacher. He never hurts anybody; he just lets them do it. They can never convict him and he gets out as soon as he wishes—at once, if he wants to.”

“What is it this time?”

“Oh, the usual nonsense—public lewdness, statutory rape, conspiracy to defraud, keeping a disorderly house, contributing to the delinquency of minors, conspiracy to evade the state truancy laws—”

“Huh?”

“That involves their own nestlings’ school. Their license to operate a parochial school was canceled; the kids still didn’t go back to public school. No matter, Jubal—none of it matters. The one thing on which they are technically in violation of the law—and so are you, Boss darling—can’t possibly be proved. Jubal, if you had ever seen the Temple and the Nest you would know that even the F.D.S. couldn’t sneak a spy-eye into it. So relax. After a lot of publicity, charges will be dropped—and the crowds at the outer services will be bigger than ever.

“Hmm! Anne, does Mike rig these persecutions himself?”

She looked startled, an expression her face was unused to. “Why, I had never considered the possibility, Jubal. Mike can’t lie, you know.”

“Does it involve lying? Suppose he planted perfectly true rumors about himself? But ones that can’t be proved in court?”

“Do you think Michael would do that?”

“I don’t know. I do know that the slickest way in the world to lie is to tell the right amount of truth at the right time—and then shut up. And it wouldn’t be the first time that persecution has been courted for its headline value. All right, I’ll dismiss it from my mind unless it turns out he can’t handle it. Are you still ‘Front’?”

“If you can refrain from chucking Abby under the chin and saying cootchy-coo and similar uncommercial noises, I’ll fetch her. Otherwise I had better tell Dorcas to get up and get to work.”

“Bring in Abby. I’m going to make an honest effort to make some commercial noises—a brand-new plot, known as boy-meets-girl.”

“Say, that’s a good one, Boss! I wonder why nobody ever thought of it before? Half a sec—” She hurried out.

Jubal did restrain himself—less than one minute of uncommercial noises and demonstrations, just enough to invoke Abigail’s heavenly smile, cum dimples, then Anne settled back and let the infant nurse. “Title:” he began. “‘Girls Are Like Boys, Only More So.’ Begin. Henry M. Haversham Fourth had been very carefully reared. He believed that there were only two kinds of girls: those in his presence and those who were not. He vastly preferred the latter sort, especially when they stayed that way. Paragraph. He had not been introduced to the young lady who fell into his lap, and he did not consider a common disaster as equivalent to a formal intro—What the hell do you want? Can’t you see I’m working?”