her morning with a fine show of authority, accumulated, perhaps,
during hours of Spartan resolution whilst the rest of the household
slept. "To-morrow I'll see that they do what I tell them--"

"Now, children," she would say, "I'm determined to stand no nonsense
this morning. Get out your copy books." Five minutes later would
begin: "Oh, Miss Jones, I can't write with this pencil. May I find a
better one?" Granted permission, Mary's head and large spectacles
would disappear inside the schoolroom cupboard. Soon Jeremy would
say very politely: "Miss Jones, I think I know where it is. May I
help her to find it?" Then Jeremy's head would disappear. There
would follow giggles, whispers, again giggles; then from the
cupboard a book tumbles, then another, then another. Then Miss Jones
would say: "Now, Jeremy, come back to the table. You've had quite
enough time--" interrupted by a perfect avalanche of books. Mary
crying:

"Oh, Jeremy!" Jeremy crying: "I didn't; it was you!" Miss Jones:
"Now, children--"

Then Jeremy, very politely:

"Please, Miss Jones, may I help Mary to pick the books up? There are
rather a lot." Then, both on their knees, more whispers and giggles.
Miss Jones, her voice trembling: "Children, I really insist--" And
more books dropped, and more whispers and more protests, and so on
ad infinitum. A beautiful game to be played all the morning.

Or there was the game of Not Hearing. Miss Jones would say: "And
twice two are four." Mary would repeat loudly: "And twice two is