Mma Ramotswe put down the piece of paper she had been folding. “Is it not strange, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni?” she said. “Is it not strange that men and women think about such very different things? There you are thinking about mechanical matters, and I am sitting here thinking about tea.”

“Yes,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “It is strange.” He paused. There was a car needing attention outside and he had to see to it. The owner wanted it back that afternoon or he would be obliged to walk home. “I must get on, Mma Ramotswe,” he said. Nodding to Mma Makutsi, he left the office and returned to the garage.

Mma Ramotswe pushed her chair back and rose to her feet. “Would you care to come with me, Mma Makutsi?” she asked. “It’s a nice day for a run.”

Mma Makutsi looked up from her desk. “But who will look after the business?” she asked. “Who will answer the telephone?”

Mma Ramotswe looked at herself in the mirror on the wall behind the filing cabinet. The mirror was intended for the use of Mma Makutsi and herself, but was used most frequently by the apprentices, who liked to preen themselves in front of it. “Should I braid my hair?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “What do you think, Mma Makutsi?”

“Your hair is very nice as it is, Mma,” said her assistant, but added, “Of course, it would be even nicer if you were to braid it.”

Mma Ramotswe looked round. “And you?” she asked. “Would you braid your hair too, if I had mine done?”

“I’m not sure,” said Mma Makutsi. “Phuti Radiphuti is an old-fashioned man. I’m not sure what his views on braiding would be.”

“An old-fashioned man?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “That’s interesting. Does he know that you’re a modern lady?”

Mma Makutsi considered the question for a moment. “I think he does,” she said. “The other night he asked me if I was a feminist.”

Mma Ramotswe stiffened. “He asked you that, did he? And what did you reply, Mma?”

“I said that most ladies were feminists these days,” said Mma Makutsi. “So I told him, yes, I am.”

Mma Ramotswe sighed. “Oh dear,” she said. “I’m not sure that that’s the best answer to give in such circumstances. Men are very frightened of feminists.”

“But I cannot lie,” protested Mma Makutsi. “Surely men don’t expect us to lie? And anyway, Phuti is a kind man. He is not one of those men who are hostile to feminists because they are insecure underneath.”

She’s right about that, thought Mma Ramotswe. Men who put women down usually did so because they were afraid of women and wanted to build themselves up. But one had to be circumspect about these things. The term feminist could upset men needlessly because some feminists were so unpleasant to men. Neither she nor Mma Makutsi was that sort of person. They liked men, even if they knew that there were some types of men who bullied women. They would never stand for that, of course, but at the same time they would not wish to be seen as hostile to men like Mr J.L.B. Matekoni or Phuti Radiphuti—or Mr Polopetsi, for that matter; Mr Polopetsi, who was so mild and considerate and badly done by.