It was a potentially indelicate reference, at least in its last part, to the fact that these beds would accommodate both husband and wife in comfort; the sort of reference which, if made by an engaged woman to her fiancé, might be interpreted as a hint. Phuti Radiphuti and Mma Makutsi did not live together, and both had their own beds. This was Phuti’s doing, and indeed Mma Makutsi had been slightly concerned that he had not been more passionate, so far. But that would come, she thought, in the fullness of time, and in the meantime there were plenty of matters to attend to without worrying about such things. As Mma Ramotswe had once delicately pointed out to Mma Makutsi, far too many people were permanently miserable because they allowed love affairs and everything that went with such things to dominate their lives. It is only one thing, she said, that business between men and women, and there are many other more important things, including food.

If Mma Makutsi’s remarks on the bed and its heart-shaped headboard might have been interpreted by Phuti Radiphuti as a reproach, or indeed as an encouragement, this was not the way in which he took them.

“It would fit very well in my house,” he said. “When we are married, this would be a very good bed for our room. And remember—beds are the one thing we don’t sell at the Double Comfort Furniture Shop.”

Mma Makutsi caught her breath. They had a firm date, or rather a tentatively firm date, for the wedding, but they had yet to deal with anything quite as concrete as a bed. This was progress, and she tried very hard to conceal her excitement. “You’re right,” she said. “And this velvet is very fine. Feel it.”

Phuti Radiphuti stretched to run his fingers over the soft cloth. “Very good,” he said. “But I don’t see how they can do this bed at this price. Where’s their profit?” He paused, glancing at the price of a nearby set of chairs. “A loss leader,” he said. “That is what they are doing. It’s an old trick.”

Mma Makutsi wondered whether she should suggest that he purchase the bed. She, of course, could not buy it herself, as she had very little money of her own. Her financial position had been immeasurably improved when she set up her small, part-time typing school for men, but that had now been abandoned and she was dependent on her salary from the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency. Even with Mma Ramotswe’s generous rates of pay, that was not much; the agency barely made a profit and effectively relied on subventions from Mma Ramotswe’s own purse—she still had her fine herd of cattle, which meant that she was comfortably off—and from Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors, in the form of rent-free premises.