Explore "The Last Chronicle of Barset" by Anthony Trollope on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Who inquires why it is that a little greased flour rubbed in among the hair on a footman's head -- just one dab here and another there -- gives such a tone of high life to the family? And seeing that the thing is so easily done, why do not more people attempt it? The tax on hair-powder is but thirteen shillings a year. It may, indeed, be that the slightest dab in the world justifies the wearer in demanding hot meat three times a day, and wine at any rate on Sundays. I think, however, that a bishop's wife may enjoy the privilege without such heavy attendant expense; otherwise the man who opened the bishop's door to Mr. Crawley would hardly have been so ornamented.
The man asked for a card. "My name is Mr. Crawley," said our friend. "The bishop has desired me to come to him at this hour. Will you be pleased to tell him that I am here. " The man again asked for a card. "I am not bound to carry with me my name printed on a ticket," said Mr. Crawley. "If you cannot remember it, give me pen and paper, and I will write it. " The servant, somewhat awed by the stranger's manner, brought the pen and paper, and Mr. Crawley wrote his name: --