Violet’s eyes widened. “Lucky? Oh, I don’t know about that, Grace Makutsi! I’m not so sure that it’s lucky to be landed with a man like that. Anyway, I hope that it works out well for you. And it might.” And then she herself added, “Who knows?”

Mma Makutsi felt her heart beating fast within her. It was time for the coup de grâce. “But I am lucky, Mma,” she said. “I think that any girl who marries into that family will be very lucky. And rich too.”

Violet faltered. “Rich?”

“Ssh,” said Grace Makutsi, putting a finger to her lips. “It’s not polite to talk about it. So I won’t mention the Double Comfort Furniture Shop, which is one of the businesses my fiancé owns, you know. I must not talk about that. But do you know the store, Mma? If you save up, you should come in some day and buy a chair.”

Violet opened her mouth to speak, but said nothing. And then Mr Fanope had appeared and had shaken Mma Makutsi’s hand and led her away to speak to another member of the class who wanted to congratulate her. Mma Makutsi had glanced back at Violet, who was fiddling with her handbag, but who looked up and caught her eye and could not conceal her envy. There was so much history there; a history of shame, and poverty, and struggle, and she could hear Mma Ramotswe’s voice in her head now. “That was not a very kind thing to do, Mma Makutsi,” Mma Ramotswe said. “You should not have done that.”

“I know,” Mma Makutsi answered, mentally. “But I just couldn’t help it, Mma.”

And the voice of Mma Ramotswe immediately softened. “I know too,” she said. “I know.” And she did, because although she was kind, Mma Ramotswe was also human, and appreciated that there were times when it was impossible to resist a small triumph, especially one that could make one smile when one remembered it later; smile for hours and hours.

MMA MAKUTSI and Phuti Radiphuti had slipped comfortably into an arrangement. On four days of the week, including Monday, Phuti came for his evening meal at Mma Makutsi’s house; on the other three days he ate in turn with his senior aunt, his sister and her husband, and, on Sunday evening, with his aged father. The dinners with his father were sometimes trying for him, as his father’s memory was not what it used to be and he frequently repeated himself, especially when talking about cattle. But Phuti was dutiful, and he would sit for hours while his father went over and over the same ground: Did Phuti remember that fine bull that he had sold to that man who lived at Mahalapye? Could Phuti remember how much they had paid for that Brahmin cow that they had bought from that Boer farmer down at Zeerust? That had been a fine cow, but when did she die? Did Phuti remember which year it was? And what about that bull that went to Mahalapye? Did Phuti remember that one? Was he sure?