THEY NEVER GET CAUGHT‘Millie dear, this does explain itself, doesn’t it, Henry?’ Mr Henry Brownrigg signed his name on the back of the little blue bill with a nourish. Then he set the scrap of paper carefully in the exact centre of the imperfectly scoured developing bath, and, leaving the offending utensil on the kitchen table for his wife to find when she came in, he stalked back to the shop, feeling that he had administered the rebuke surely and at the same time gracefully.
In fifteen years Mr Brownrigg felt that he had mastered the art of teaching his wife her job. Not that he had taught her. That, Mr Brownrigg felt, with a woman of Millie’s staggering obtuseness was past praying for. But now, after long practice, he could deliver the snub or administer the punishing word in a way whic
