Mma Ramotswe continued with her contemplation of her hands. She had made a mistake, but it was one which anybody might make in the face of the evidence that had been before her. And Mma Makutsi was not one to lecture her about making mistakes. Had she forgotten that bed left out in the rain? What about the new, unsuitable glasses?

She looked up. While she had been staring at her hands, Mma Makutsi, it seemed, had taken off her new glasses and slipped her old ones back on. Mma Ramotswe was momentarily taken aback by this, but recovered her composure. “Yes,” she said to Mma Makutsi. “We can all make mistakes, Mma. Even you.”

Nothing more was said. Mma Ramotswe’s potentially disastrous mistake—fortunately not communicated to the entirely innocent Mr. Polopetsi, whose embarrassment at forgetting he had a letter for her in his pocket she had taken for guilt—was cancelled out by Mma Makutsi’s purchase of the unsuitable glasses. Both looked foolish. There need be no further mention of either matter, apart, perhaps, from one final question.

“Were they expensive, Mma?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “Those glasses. Did they cost a lot?”

Mma Makutsi pursed her lips. They must have been very expensive, thought Mma Ramotswe.

Then Mma Makutsi said, “I don’t know, Mma.”

So Phuti Radiphuti bought them for her, thought Mma Ramotswe. That will lead to difficulties, as he will surely expect her to wear them.

Mma Makutsi realised that further explanation was necessary, and she now provided it. “I found them, you see,” she said, her voice quiet, almost ashamed. “I found them by the side of the road.”

It took Mma Ramotswe a little time to speak. “You must—”

“Yes, I know,” interjected Mma Makutsi. “I will hand them in. I was going to, I suppose. It’s just that—”

“Good,” said Mma Ramotswe. “So that’s that.”

But it was not. Now came the thing that Mma Makutsi had not intended to tell Mma Ramotswe, but now it just tumbled out. “I think I know who wears glasses like this,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Violet Sephotho!”

Mma Ramotswe gasped. “Violet Sephotho! That horrid woman from the recruitment agency? The one who—”

“Yes,” said Mma Makutsi. “That man-eater from the dancing class. The one who was rude about Phuti. The one who—”

“You have told me all about her,” said Mma Ramotswe. She hesitated. An idea was coming to her; just the germ of an idea. But she knew from experience that in these tiny, incipient ideas, these hunches, there often lay the answer to a major question.

“When did you find them?” she asked.

“A week ago,” said Mma Makutsi. “Last Monday. I wasn’t going to wear them, you see, and then…”