The woman started to protest. “But how … ?”

Mma Makutsi raised a finger. “Watch their reactions very closely, Mma. See how they behave. They will probably behave differently. Watch them and then choose the one who is prepared to forgive you the most. That one will be the kind one. Choose to stay with him and say to the other that you are sorry but you cannot stay with him.”

For a while nobody spoke. Outside in the garage, Fanwell and Mr. Polopetsi were hammering on metal. Fanwell said something and a peal of laughter drifted through the door.

The woman stared at Mma Ramotswe and then turned round and smiled at Mma Makutsi. “That is a very good idea, Mma. That is very wise.”

Mma Makutsi looked down modestly. “I am glad that you think so, Mma.”

“And so do I,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I think that even Sherlock Holmes would be proud of that suggestion.”

“Who is this Rra Holmes?” asked the woman.

“He was a very famous detective,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Over that way.” She waved a hand in the direction of north. “He lived in London. He is late now.”

“I will do what you have suggested,” said the woman. “My heart is lighter now.”

“Good,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And come back and let us know what happens, Mma—” She broke off. She realised that she did not know the woman's name and now it had become obvious. That was the trouble when everybody could be addressed as Mma or Rra; sometimes one did not get the name at the beginning and then it became embarrassing to ask for it.

“My name is Mma Sephotho,” said the woman. “Lily Sephotho.”

WELL!” expostulated Mma Makutsi after Mma Sephotho had left. “What can I say, Mma? I do not know. I do not know.”

It was rare for Mma Makutsi to profess speechlessness; indeed it had never happened. Her declaration of speechlessness, however, was accompanied by a flood of words, all of them expressing a mixture of astonishment and its opposite: she was astonished but not astonished—if Violet Sephotho was to have a mother, then her mother surely would be exactly the sort to have two husbands. Not that they were real husbands, of course: nothing quite so respectable as that in a household of loose women. Two men—that is what Mma Sephotho had—two men. And by her own admission—in her own so very apt words—these were a weekday man and a weekend man. Had Mma Ramotswe ever heard these matters put so crudely? And had the woman not talked about it as shamelessly as one might discuss having two pairs of shoes: one pair for weekdays and one for weekends?

Mma Ramotswe listened to all this without saying very much, other than punctuating Mma Makutsi's diatribe with a modest “Very strange” and a cautious “Rather unusual.”

“And she had the cheek to come in here and tell us,” Mma Makutsi fumed. “The mother of the woman who …”