“That was a soft landing,” said the instructor. “Well done. You were just a bit off target, that’s all. I think you were pulling on the wrong side of the canopy. That’s why you sailed off here.”

The apprentice nodded. He had a curious expression on his face, half way between sheer relief and pain.

“I think that I am injured,” he said.

“You can’t be,” said the instructor, dusting down the green parachute suit. “The tree completely broke your fall.”

The apprentice shook his head. “There is something hurting me. It is very sore. It is there. Please see what it is.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni looked at the seat of Charlie’s trousers. There was a large rip in the fabric and a very nasty-looking acacia thorn, several inches long, embedded in the flesh. Deftly he took this between his fingers and extracted it with one swift movement. The apprentice gave a yelp.

“That was all,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “A big thorn…”

“Please do not tell them,” said the apprentice. “Please do not tell them where it was.”

“Of course I will not,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “You are a brave, brave young man.”

The apprentice smiled. He was recovering from his shock now. “Are the newspaper people there?” he asked. “Did they come?”

“They are there,” said Mma Potokwane’s husband. “And many girls too.”

Back under the trees he received a hero’s welcome. The children ran round him, tugging at his sleeves, the housemothers fussed over him with mugs of tea and large slices of cake, and the girls looked on admiringly. Charlie basked in the glory of it all, smiling at the photographers when they approached with their cameras, and patting children on the head, just as an experienced hero might do. Mma Ramotswe watched with amusement, and considerable relief, and then went off to talk to Mma Holonga, whom she had spotted arriving rather late, when the jump had already taken place. She took her client a mug of tea and led her to a private place under a tree, where they could both sit in privacy and talk.

“I have started making enquiries for you,” she began. “I have spoken to two of the men on your list and I can give you a report on what I have found out so far.”

Mma Holonga nodded. “Well, yes. I must say that there have been developments since I saw you. But tell me anyway. Then I shall tell you what I have decided to do.”

Mma Ramotswe could not conceal her surprise. What was the point of consulting her if Mma Holonga was going to make a decision before receiving even a preliminary report?

“You’ve decided something?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Mma Holonga, in a matter-of-fact voice. “But you go ahead and tell me what you found out. I’m very interested.”

Mma Ramotswe began her account. “A few days ago I met your Mr Spokesi,” she said. “I had a conversation with him and in the course of this conversation I realised that he was not being honest with you. He is a man who likes younger ladies and I do not think that he is serious about marrying you. I think that he would like to have a good time using your money, and then he would go back to the other ladies. I’m sorry about that, Mma, but there it is.”

“Of course,” said Mma Holonga, tossing back her head. “That man is very vain and is interested only in himself. I think I knew that all along. You have confirmed my views, Mma.”

Mma Ramotswe was slightly taken aback by this. She had expected a measure of disappointment on Mma Holonga’s part, an expression of regret, instead of which Mr Spokes Spokesi, who must have been a lively suitor, was being consigned to oblivion quite insouciantly.

“Then there is the teacher,” Mma Ramotswe went on. “Mr Bobologo. He is a much more serious man than that Spokesi person. He is a clever man, I think; very well-read.”

Mma Holonga smiled. “Yes,” she said. “He is a good man.”

“But a very dull one too,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And he is interested only in getting hold of your money to use for his House of Hope. That is all that interests him. I think that…”

Mma Ramotswe tailed off. Her words were having a strange effect on Mma Holonga, she thought. Her client was now sitting bolt upright, her lips pursed in disapproval of what Mma Ramotswe was telling her.

“That is not true!” Mma Holonga expostulated. “He would never do a thing like that.”

Mma Ramotswe sighed. “I am sorry, Mma. In my job I often have to tell people things that they do not want to hear. I think that you might not want to hear what I have to say, but I must say it nonetheless. That is my duty. That man is after your money.”

Mma Holonga stared at Mma Ramotswe. She rose to her feet, dusting at her skirts as she did so. “You have been very good, Mma,” she said coldly. “I am very grateful to you for finding out about Spokesi. Oh yes, you have done well there. But when it comes to my fiance, Mr Bobologo, you must stop talking about him in this way. I have decided to marry him, and that is it.”

Mma Ramotswe did not know what to say and for a few moments she struggled with herself. Clovis Andersen, as far as she could remember, had never written about what to do in this precise situation and she was thrown back on first principles. There was her duty to her client, which was to carry out the enquiries which she had been asked to conduct. But then there was her duty to warn-a simple human duty which involved warning somebody of danger which they were courting. That duty existed, of course, but at the same time one should not be paternalistic and interfere in matters in which another person wished to choose for themselves. It was not for Mma Ramotswe to make Mma Holonga’s decisions for her.

She decided to be cautious. “Are you sure about this, Mma?” she asked. “I hope that you do not think I am being rude in asking, but are you sure that you wish to marry this man? It is a very major decision.”

Mma Holonga seemed to be pacified by Mma Ramotswe’s tone, and she smiled as she replied. “Well, Mma, you are right about its being a very major decision. I am well aware of that. But I have decided that my destiny lies with that man.”

“And you know all about his… his interests?”

“You mean his good works? His work for others?”

“The House of Hope. The bar girls…”

Mma Holonga looked out over the orphan farm field, as if searching for bar girls. “I know all about that. In fact, I am very much involved in that good work. Since I came to see you, he has shown me the House of Hope and I have been doing work there. I have started hair-braiding classes for those bad girls and then they can come and work in my salons.”

“That is a very good idea,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And then there is the possible extension…”

“That too,” interrupted Mma Holonga. “I shall be paying for that. I have already talked to a builder I know. Then, after that is done, I am going to build a House of Hope out at Molepolole, for bad girls from that region. That was all my idea, not Bobologo’s.”

Mma Ramotswe listened to all this and realised that she was in the presence of a woman who had found her vocation. So there was nothing more for her to say, other than to congratulate her on her forthcoming marriage and to reflect on the truth that when people ask for advice they very rarely want your advice and will go ahead and do what they want to do anyway, no matter what you say. That applied in every sort of case; it was a human truth of universal application, but one which most people knew little or nothing about.