Mma Potokwane looked at her as if to say: How can you possibly pick up the pieces here? But Mma Ramotswe chose to ignore this. She signalled to the waiter for their bill. “Did you come here by foot, Mr. Polopetsi?” she asked. There was a Polopetsi car, but it was always being driven by Mrs. Polopetsi, and he was rarely allowed to use it.

He nodded, glancing at Mma Potokwane, as if preparing himself to forestall any further criticism.

“In that case,” said Mma Ramotswe, “I’ll run you back. My van is parked on the other side of the square—not far away.”

“Well, I’m going back to work,” said Mma Potokwane. Whether or not she intended it, there was a strong emphasis on the word work. The censure this implied—that there were some whose idea of work was the making of risky investments—found its target, and Mr. Polopetsi, already reduced, crumpled further. He was a small man, and now he was even smaller. His jacket, too large for him at any time, seemed to envelop him like some giant sack, his hands disappearing up the sleeves, the fabric around the shoulders without support now, loose and flapping.

Outside in the square, the afternoon sun made shadows under the trees and around the doorways of the buildings, pools of shade where people took languid shelter from the heat of the day. A few traders, those whose stalls were comfortably under the branches of the acacias, continued to offer their wares; others had packed up and left after the morning’s business was over.

They walked slowly, as the warmth of the day dictated.

“Rain,” said Mr. Polopetsi.

She barely heard the voice emanating from somewhere under the billowing clothes.

“What was that, Mr. Polopetsi?”

“I said: rain, Mma. I hope there will be rain soon.”

She glanced up at the sky. “I hope so too, Rra. Some people say we’re being punished by this drought. They say that God is expressing his displeasure.”

“Nonsense. That’s nonsense, Mma.”

“Of course it is, Mr. Polopetsi. This is all to do with the direction of sea currents and things like that.”

Mr. Polopetsi made a sound that indicated agreement. It was a strange sound, and she was not sure quite where it came from. It seemed to issue from one of the flapping sleeves of his jacket, but that surely was impossible. She looked at him. His mouth was very small, she decided. Did he take a very long time to eat a meal? she wondered; with that small mouth, the consumption of food would be a slow business. It was a strange thought to have, and she pulled herself up; the mind was a peculiar thing, suggesting all sorts of things of little or no consequence.

They drew level with a trader’s stall on which clothing was displayed. There was a neat stack of T-shirts on which Bostwana was printed in various colours.