"You are not my father, Mr. Brandon," said Grit coldly.
"It is all the same; I am your mother's husband."
"That's a different thing."
"Once more, are you going to give me the money you have in your pocket?"
"No, sir."
Brandon looked at Grit, and he felt that it would have given him pleasure to shake the rebellion out of his obstinate stepson, but supper was almost ready, and he felt hungry. He decided that it would be as well to postpone an open outbreak. Grit was in the house, and not likely to run away.
"We'll speak of this another time," he said, waving his hand. "You will find, young man, that it is of no use opposing me. Mrs. Brandon, is supper almost ready?"
"Nearly," answered his wife, glad to have the subject postponed.
"Then serve it as soon as possible," he said, in a lordly tone. "I am to meet a gentleman on business directly afterward."
Supper was on the table in fifteen minutes.