The silence was broken by Mma Ramotswe. “I am Precious Ramotswe. I saw you, Mma, in the office at the school. Do you remember?”

The woman seemed pleased to have been remembered. Such people can be invisible to others. “I remember that well, Mma. You were talking to Mr. Taylor. He is a kind man.”

“Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I have heard that.” She paused, searching the woman's expression. Yes, it was there. It was unmistakable. “Do you want to talk to me, Mma?”

The woman gave a start. She was nervous. “To talk, Mma?”

Mma Ramotswe reached out a hand. She did not touch the other woman, but held her hand in such a position that she could take it if she wished. “I think that you are troubled, my sister,” she said. “It is my job to listen to the troubles of others. Did you know that?”

The woman looked down at the ground. She did not take the proffered hand, and Mma Ramotswe let it drop back to her side.

“I know that, Mma. But I am not a rich lady. I do not have money.”

“That does not matter,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I am your sister, Mma.”

It was her way of expressing the old bonds that had always held the country together; a subtle, usually unspoken sense of mutual interest and respect that people could forget about, but that was still there and could be invoked by those who held with the old ways. I am your sister. There was no simpler or more effective way of expressing a whole philosophy of life.

The woman looked up. “It is very good of you, Mma, but I cannot talk now. I have my work to do. I have to get to the school.”

Mma Ramotswe nodded. “Well, as long as you know that I shall listen to you. Do you know where my place is?”

The woman turned and pointed over her shoulder. “It is over on that side. On the Tlokweng Road. Next to a big garage.”

Mma Ramotswe smiled. Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors could hardly be called a big garage, but she knew what the woman meant. When one was down at the bottom of the heap, then any business, even a small one like the garage, could seem big and important.

“Yes,” she said. “It is beside a garage. But it is not a big office, and if you ever come to see me you will be made a cup of red bush tea. You are always making tea for other people; you will have to let us make tea for you for a change.”

The woman smiled at this, and then continued on her way. Mma Ramotswe looked at her watch. There was still plenty of time, but she suspected that walking to work would not be quite as quick as she had imagined.

BY THE TIME she came within sight of Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors and the No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency, Mma Ramotswe had developed a raging thirst. Her feet, she noted with satisfaction, felt perfectly comfortable—she had her flat shoes to thank for that—and she still had plenty of energy. It was just thirst that troubled her, and that would be easily dealt with when Mma Makutsi put on the kettle for the first cup of tea of the working day.