Mma Ramotswe laughed. “That is good, Mma.” She looked at her visitor. One of the attractive things about Mma Potokwane was her cheerfulness. The fact that she had failed in her request did not seem to upset her unduly; there would be plenty of other such chances.

The conversation moved on to other things. Mma Potokwane had a niece who was doing very well with her music—she played the piano—and she was hoping to get her a place in David Slater’s music camp. Mma Ramotswe heard all about this and then she heard about the troubles that Mma Potokwane’s brother was having with his cattle, which had not done well in the dry season. Two of them had also been stolen, and had appeared in somebody’s herd with a new brand on them. That was a terrible thing, did Mma Ramotswe not agree, and you would have thought that the local police would have found it easy to deal with such a matter. But they had not, said Mma Potokwane, and they had believed the story offered up by the man in whose herd they had been found. The police were easy to fool, Mma Potokwane suggested; she herself would not have been taken in by a story like that.

Their conversation might have continued for some time along these lines had it not been for the sudden arrival of another van, this time a large green one, which drove smartly through the open gate and drew to a halt in front of the verandah. Mma Ramotswe, puzzled by this further set of visitors, rose to her feet to investigate as a man got out of the front of the van and saluted her cheerfully.

“I am delivering a chair,” he announced. “Where do you want me to put it?”

Mma Ramotswe frowned. “I have not bought a chair,” she said. “I think that this must be the wrong house.”

“Oh?” said the man, consulting a piece of paper which he had extracted from his pocket. “Is this not Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s house?”

“It is his house,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But …”

“Then this is the right place after all,” said the man. “Mr J.L.B. Matekoni bought a chair the other day. Now it is ready. Mr Radiphuti told me to bring it.”

So, thought Mma Ramotswe, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni has been shopping, and she could hardly send the chair back. She nodded to the man and gestured to the door behind her. “Please put it through there, Rra,” she said. “That is where it will go.”

As the chair was carried past them, Mma Potokwane let out a whistle. “That is a very fine chair, Mma,” she said. “Mr J.L.B. Matekoni has made a very good choice.”