"My dinner can wait," thought Grit. "I must not disappoint passengers."
So his coming home was delayed, and Brandon and his friend had the field to themselves.
When dinner was ready, Brandon staggered to the table and seated himself.
"Sit down, Travers," he said. "You're in my house, and you must make yourself at home."
He said this a little defiantly, for he saw by Mrs. Brandon's expression that she was not pleased with his friend's presence.
"I'm glad to hear it," said Travers, with a knowing smile. "I was told that the house belonged to your wife."
"It's the same thing, isn't it, Mrs. B.?" returned Brandon.
"Not quite," answered his wife bitterly. "If it were, we should not have a roof over our heads."
"There you go again!" said Brandon fiercely, pounding the table with the handle of his knife. "Don't let me hear no more such talk. I'm master here, d'ye hear that?"