He wouldn't have it.

And still----Robin was poor Gerald's son, and there was nothing against him but his politics.

Somewhere, at the back of his mind, the General recognised the fact that he could have forgiven the politics if it had not been for the Dowager.
He had almost reached the doors of his club--Grogan might eat the curry for him, and be hanged to him!--when he saw advancing towards him the spare, elegant figure that sat its horse in front of the regiment below the General's window every morning.

The oddest gleam came into his eyes.
The young man had recognised him, and was blushing like a girl as he came towards him.

He had velvety brown eyes and regular features, was a handsome lad, the General said to himself as young Langrishe lifted his hat from his sleek, well-shaped head.