She looked away. Was their own marriage based on love, or was it something else that brought them together? Affection? Friendship? The comfort of sharing their lives? She knew what she felt about Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni: she loved him. It was as simple as that. He was her husband, and she loved him. And she had every reason to believe, she felt, that he had loved her when he asked her to marry him and she had agreed. She was sure that he had loved her when they stood together, before Bishop Mwamba, under that tree at the orphan farm, with the sound of the children’s singing rising up into that great, empty sky and the words of the marriage service—those profound words—hanging in the air, proclaimed by the Bishop and repeated by the two of them so that all might hear; she was sure that he had loved her then, and she believed that he loved her still. She would not ask him, though, because you should never ask that question of another; you should wait for him or her to say it, so that you know, then, that it comes from the heart, from that part of us that can never lie, can never conceal the truth.

She acknowledged the veracity of what he said. “Yes, there are many such marriages, but I think that people still like to believe they are in love when they get married. I think that is important.”

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni looked thoughtful. “So he does not love this lady? Then why did he come out to see her here? Surely that is unkind, if she thinks that he’s coming out to Botswana so that he can ask her to marry him, and all the time he has no intention of doing that. Surely that is not very kind.”

She admitted that it could seem a bit like raising somebody’s hopes, but would it not have been more unkind to refuse to come at all? He saw that. “It is a very difficult situation,” he said. “It must have been very hard for Mr. Andersen.” He stopped for a moment before continuing: “Why does he not love her, Mma? Is there a reason?”

Mma Ramotswe settled back in her seat. “That is the point, Rra. There is a very big reason why poor Mr. Andersen cannot love this lady who builds libraries. It is because he is still in love with his late wife. That is the reason.”

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni finished the last of the mutton stew on his plate and looked enquiringly at Mma Ramotswe. Sometimes he was allowed a second helping, but these days, following the discovery that a belt he had been wearing for years no longer fitted him, he was on a less calorific regime.

“No more,” she said. “We can eat the rest tomorrow.”

He sighed, but did not argue.