They made their way over to the brown sofa—a much more low-key affair—and she sat down on it. It was considerably less physically comfortable than the gold-coloured sofa, but correspondingly more mentally comfortable. This was a sofa on which one might sit in casual clothes, on which one might eat a doughnut or drink a cup of tea without worrying about crumbs or splashes. This was a sofa entirely free of guilt.

“I think that this will be a very good sofa,” she said to Phuti. “You try it.”

Phuti sat down. “It is well made,” he said. “I know the people who make these sofas. They are honest people.”

“Then I would like this one,” said Mma Makutsi.

Phuti leaned across and whispered in her ear. “I am very happy, Grace. I am very happy that you have chosen this one rather than the gold one. That shows me that you are not one who is impressed with flashy things. You are gold inside, Grace, not just outside.”

She turned and kissed him lightly. “That is the kindest thing anybody has ever said to me.” Gold inside, not just outside.

Phuti called over the floor manager, who had been hovering in the background, and arrangements were made to transfer the sofa to the storage warehouse. Then they returned to the office before Phuti drove Mma Makutsi back to the agency. On the way, they stopped at a petrol station, and Phuti set about filling the car. As he instructed the attendant, a van drew up alongside the neighbouring pump and a man in blue overalls stepped out.

Mma Makutsi watched. Phuti looked up and saw the man, whom he obviously recognised. For a moment or two they looked at one another before Phuti gave a nod of greeting. The other man turned away. Now he hesitated, looked over his shoulder, and then busied himself with the cap of the van’s fuel tank. It struck her as strange that the man should have so pointedly failed to respond to Phuti’s friendly overture; even a smile would have been polite—a smile or a nod of acknowledgement.

“Who is that rude man?” she asked Phuti as they drove off a few minutes later.

“He is one of the builder’s men,” he said. “I met him when I went to look at the house. Now he doesn’t seem to want to know me.”

Mma Makutsi frowned. “Why?”

“I have no idea,” replied Phuti. “There are some people who are very shy. Maybe he is one of those.”

Mma Makutsi thought for a moment. “Shy, or rude, maybe. Rude like his boss,” she said. “He is rude too. Rude boss; rude men. Sometimes that is the way it happens.”