All these things fed his sense of power. He did not consider her a human being at all; she was simply something upon which he could exercise his ingenuity and cleverness. Mary followed him in whatever he did; Helen pretended to be superior, but was not. Yes, Miss Jones was in the hands of her tormentors, and there was no escape for her. Surely it must have been some outside power that drove Jeremy on. The children called it “teasing Miss Jones,” and the aboriginal savagery in their behaviour was as unconscious as their daily speech or fashion of eating their food--some instinct inherited, perhaps, from the days when the gentleman with the biggest muscles extracted for his daily amusement the teeth and nails of his less happily muscular friends. There were many games to be played with Miss Jones. She always began 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 five--” “Four, Mary.” “Oh, I thought you said five.” And then a second later Jeremy would ask: “Did you say four or five, Miss Jones?” “I told Mary I said four--” “Oh, I've written five--and now it's all wrong. Didn't you write five, Mary?” “Yes, I've written five. You did say four, didn't you, Miss Jones?” “Yes--yes. And three makes--” “What did you say made five?” asked Jeremy. “I didn't say five. I said four. Twice two.” “Is that as well as 'add three,' Miss Jones? I've got twice two, and then add three, and then twice two--” “No, no. I was only telling Jeremy--” “Please, Miss Jones, would you mind beginning again--”