"He's my frien' Travers," answered Brandon. "My frien' Travers is a gen'l'man."
"A gentleman isn't insolent to ladies," retorted Grit. "Mr. Travers, if that is your name, my mother wishes you to leave the house."
"Couldn't do it," said Travers, leering. "My frien' Brandon wants me to stay—don't you, Brandon?"
"Certainly, Travers. This is my house, an' I'm master of the house. Don't you mind what Mrs. B. or this cub says. Just stay where you are, and stand by me."
"I'll do it with pleasure," said Travers. "My friend Brandon is the master of this house, and what he says I will do."
"Mr. Travers," said Grit firmly, "you shall not stay here. This house belongs to my mother, and she wishes you to go. I suppose you can understand that?"
"My dear boy, you may as well shut up. I shan't go."
"You won't!" said Grit menacingly.
"Oh, Grit, don't get into any difficulty," said his mother, becoming alarmed.
Travers puffed away at his pipe, surveying Grit with an insulting smile.