CHAPTER XVIII.
THE BISHOP OF BARCHESTER IS CRUSHED.
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.