The youth addressed reddened even more at the question, while his eyes shifted from the face of his interrogator to Tom's, and then across to the girl's. Contrasting the two young fellows, Tom and José, one could not compliment the latter; for he seemed to be the very opposite of Tom. A year his senior, perhaps, he was lanky and lean, while his arms and legs and body seemed to writhe and twist as his eyes shifted from corner to corner. The chin disclosed weakness of character and want of firmness, to which thin lips and watery eyes added nothing. In short, José was anything but attractive.
"Why did Tom start this quarrel?" asked Septimus relentlessly, his glasses turned on José all the while.
"I don't know," came the surly answer. "He's always quarrelling."
"Then you began the matter?" said Septimus, turning upon Tom the same close scrutiny. "Why?"
"He didn't!" came abruptly from the girl, who was standing a few paces from him. "José is not telling the truth. Even though he is my brother, I can't remain quiet and know that he is blaming Tom for what is really his own fault."
José's eyes gleamed as his sister spoke. His brows were knit together and his thin lips pursed, as is the case with one in anger. At that moment this unattractive youth looked as if he would willingly have struck his own sister.
"She favours him," he cried angrily. "She's always on his side."
"Silence!" commanded Septimus sternly. "Now, Marguerite, tell me about it."
"He started to tease me," declared the girl, nodding towards her brother. "He splashed the letter I was writing with ink, and then threw some over my needlework. Tom asked him to stop, and then called him a bully. José threw the inkpot at him promptly."
"Ah!" came from the man seated in the centre. "And then?"