It may help to understand human affairs to be clear that most of the great triumphs and tragedies of history are caused, not by people being fundamentally good or fundamentally bad, but by people being fundamentally people.
There was a knock at the door. She opened it.
“Has it happened yet?” asked Mr. Young. “I'm the father. The husband. Whatever. Both.”
Sister Mary had expected the American Cultural Attaché to look like Blake Carrington or J. R. Ewing. Mr. Young didn't look like any American she'd ever seen on television, except possibly for the avuncular sheriff in the better class of murder mystery. [With a little old lady as the sleuth, and no car chases unless they're done very slowly.] He was something of a disappointment. She didn't think much of his cardigan, either.
She swallowed her disappointment. “Oooh, yes,” she said. “Congratulations. Your lady wife's asleep, poor pet.”
Mr. Young looked over her shoulder. “Twins?” he said. He reached for his pipe. He stopped reaching for his pipe. He reached for it again. “Twins? No one said anything about twins.”
“Oh, not” said Sister Mary hurriedly. “This one's yours. The other one's ... er ... someone else's. Just looking after him till Sister Grace gets back. No,” she reiterated, pointing to the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness, “this one's definitely yours. From the top of his head to the tips of his hoofywoofies.. which he hasn't got,” she added hastily.
Mr. Young peered down.
“Ah, yes,” he said doubtfully. “He looks like my side of the family. All, er, present and correct, is he?”
“Oh, yes,” said Sister Mary. “He's a very normal child,” she added. “Very, very normal.”
There was a pause. They stared at the sleeping baby.
“You don't have much of an accent,” said Sister Mary. “Have you been over here long?”
“About ten years,” said Mr. Young, mildly puzzled. “The job moved, you see, and I had to move with it.”
“It must be a very exciting job, I've always thought,” said Sister Mary. Mr. Young looked gratified. Not everyone appreciated the more stimulating aspects of cost accountancy.
“I expect it was very different where you were before,” Sister Mary went on.
“I suppose so,” said Mr. Young, who'd never really thought about it. Luton, as far as he could remember, was pretty much like Tadfield. The same sort of hedges between your house and the railway station. The same sort of people.
“Taller buildings, for one thing,” said Sister Mary, desperately.
Mr. Young stared at her. The only one he could think of was the Alliance and Leicester offices.
“And I expect you go to a lot of garden parties,” said the nun.
Ah. He was on firmer ground here. Deirdre was very keen on that sort of thing.
“Lots,” he said, with feeling. “Deirdre makes jam for them, you know. And I normally have to help with the White Elephant.”
This was an aspect of Buckingham Palace society that had never occurred to Sister Mary, although the pachyderm fitted right in.
“I expect they're the tribute,” she said. “I read where these foreign potentates give her all sorts of things.”
“I'm sorry?”
“I'm a big fan of the Royal Family, you know.”
“Oh, so am I,” said Mr. Young, leaping gratefully onto this new ice floe in the bewildering stream of consciousness. Yes, you knew where you were with the Royals. The proper ones, of course, who pulled their weight in the hand.. waving and bridge.. opening department. Not the ones who went to discos all night long and were sick all over the paparazzi. [It is possibly worth mentioning at this point that Mr. Young thought that paparazzi was a kind of Italian linoleum.]
“That's nice,” said Sister Mary. “I thought you people weren't too keen on them, what with revoluting and throwing all those tea.. sets into the river.”
She chattered on, encouraged by the Order's instruction that members should always say what was on their minds. Mr. Young was out of his depth, and too tired now to worry about it very much. The religious life probably made people a little odd. He wished Mrs. Young would wake up. Then one of the words in Sister Mary's wittering struck a hopeful chord in his mind.
“Would there be any possibility of me possibly being able to have a cup of tea, perhaps?” he ventured.
“Oh my,” said Sister Mary, her hand flying to her mouth, “whatever am I thinking of?”
Mr. Young made no comment.
“I'll see to it right away,” she said. “Are you sure you don't want coffee, though? There's one of those vendible machines on the next floor.”