Thomas stood quite still. “That is not why I did this, Rra.”

“I know,” said Phuti. “And that is why I want to offer you that job.”

“You will like working for my husband,” said Mma Makutsi.

“I will,” said Thomas. “Yes, Mma, I will.”

They got into the car and drove off down the road.

CLOVIS ANDERSEN CAME to see Mma Ramotswe on the day before his departure. It was early on a Saturday morning, and she was at home, walking about her garden, when he called. She offered him a cup of tea, which she said they could drink as she showed him her plants and Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni’s vegetables. He had expressed an interest in hearing the Setswana names of some of the plants, and she had promised to tell him these—or at least to try to. “The trouble is that we are losing many of those words, Rra. We’re forgetting what these plants are called. They are lovely names, but we are losing them.”

“We’re losing words too,” he said. “People are forgetting about the land.”

“Even in your place, Rra?”

“Yes,” he said. “Even in my place.”

Mma Ramotswe looked up into the branches of her favourite acacia tree. “So, we’ll all soon be living in towns and cities and will forget where we came from. We’ll forget who feeds us. That is the earth, I think. And yet we’ll forget her.”

“I hope not,” said Clovis Andersen. “At least I won’t forget it. Nor you, Mma …”

“No, I won’t forget it.”

“I meant: I won’t forget you, Mma Ramotswe.”

She smiled at him. It was a kind thing for him to say, but of course he would forget her. He was an important, busy man from far away: Why should he remember a woman who lived in a place that was small by comparison with his own country; a woman who had only a tiny business and not very important things to do? Why should he remember?

She made tea and brought it out to him, and together they started to walk about the garden. She showed him her mopipi tree, which had been making good progress but had to be protected from the ravages of ants. She showed him her bed of aloes that were producing intense red flowers on spiky shafts. She showed him the beans that Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni irrigated in the dry-land way, with drips of precious water tracking down a suspended thread.

And then, quite suddenly, he turned to her and said, “Mma Ramotswe, I have a confession to make. I cannot leave without saying something to you.”

She looked up at him; he was much taller than she was. “What is it, Rra?”

“You have been so kind to me, Mma Ramotswe. You and Mma Makutsi. You have made my stay such a good one.”