To a certain slice of the British chattering classes, a barrier to entry is not a hurdle—it’s a pedestal. An entire lifetime might be fruitfully spent in pursuit of an ever better and more exclusive club: a reassuring drift from Eton, to Oxford, to 5 Hertford Street, to White’s, to the Hurlingham, to the Marylebone Cricket Club, to the House of Lords—and on and on, upward and upward, to the loveliest tomb in the smartest graveyard.
Along the way, you may decide that your money needs a little gatekeeping, too. And not by some garden-variety bank, but by a place where the Queen saw fit to keep her cash, perhaps. This is the enduring appeal of the private bank—a nostalgic atmosphere not dissimilar to that of the clubhouse.
