“One of the small man’s relatives came,” Mma Makutsi continued. “He was also very small—they all were, those people. Same nose too—these things run in families, you know, Mma. We saw that up in Bobonong; we saw that a lot. There was a family there that had only four toes: grandmother, mother, children—four toes. On each foot, of course: eight toes altogether. It was as if God had said, ‘You people are going to get four toes only. No argument. Four toes, so shut up.’ ” She paused. “Anyway, this relative of the small man took the dog off somewhere and he was never seen again. It is not a very happy story, Mma, but Fanwell’s dog has brought it all back to me.”

Mma Ramotswe took the teacup Mma Makutsi passed her. “Thank you, Mma,” she said. “Tea always helps clear the mind. And as for your story about that small man—I’m very sorry to hear about the tractor.”

“These things happen,” said Mma Makutsi. “And I think those small people—that man’s relatives—were used to things like that. That is how their life is, you see. They start off underfoot, so to speak, and they remain there.”

Mma Ramotswe imagined the small family, with their prominent noses, putting up with the indignities heaped upon them by larger people. Mma Makutsi could sometimes simplify things, but she was often very good at seeing the world from another perspective. Tall people could forget that the world might look quite different if you were short; and of course well-off people had a marked tendency to forget how things might look if you were poor. We have to remind ourselves, she thought. We have to remind ourselves how the world looked when viewed from elsewhere.

Mma Makutsi took off her spectacles. She began to polish the lenses, thoughtfully, as one might do when contemplating some great truth. “We would like the world to be different,” she said gravely. “We would like things like that not to happen—but they can’t be avoided, Mma—particularly if you’re very small.”

“No,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You’re right. They can’t be avoided.”