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We met in the offices of the Wainscott Next Millennium Fund, which are located in the upper reaches of Grope Tower, that architectural wart that … but you’ve heard me on that topic already. “We’re here, Norm, to help you and the museum,” Mr. Morin began portentously. “We’re here, Norm, to make you a player in the Fund. We’re here to make you an offer you can’t refuse.” To which his two colleagues supplied what sounded to me like canned laughter.

One of them, a Mr. Jeff Sherkin, a short plump young man with black mustache, fresh complexion, and nervous blue eyes, professed amazement that the museum did not have a development program of its own. This, for some reason, got a frown from Mr. Morin.

“I’m not sure we need one,” I said. “We have income adequate to our purposes.”

“Development isn’t just about raising money,” put in the other, a Mr. Peter Flaler, his voice condescending. The Mutt of this duo, Mr. Flaler was thin, tall, and apparently unable to relieve his narrow face of a supercilious smirk. He went on to explain in the manner of one speaking to a dullard, “People of substance like to and want to give to worthy institutions.”

“Yes, and to receive due recognition, of course,” chimed in Sherkin.

“You don’t just ask for money,” said Mr. Flaler with his smirk. “Who wants to give millions for paper clips and staff dental coverage? No, you give them something they can put their name on.”

“Right,” said the Jeff. “A building. A center. A professorship. A library. A gate.”

“A gate?”

“Of course. Your main gate, for instance. You could, for a reasonable bequest, name it, say, the Bill Gates Gate.” They all smiled. “All it would entail is a little plaque stating that the doorway was given in memory of Bill Gates.”

“But the gate wasn’t given by Mr. Gates. The gate’s been there for more than a hundred years. People aren’t stupid.” I was now playing their game, playing as dumb as they thought I was.

“Of course. It’s only a convention. Mr. Latour, we all want in some small way to be immortal.”

“Do living people really have doors named for them?”

“You wouldn’t believe the things people have named for them. We have one benefactor, a couple actually, who have an elevator named for them. It’s over in the Medical School. The Waldo and Rose Grosbeak Elevator.”

“Amazing.”

“Oh, yeah. Waldo’s Class of ’Sixty-one. Founded Grosbeak Camping Gear. Deep pockets in those hiking pants, ha, ha. Of course, a named elevator isn’t really like a named chair. I mean it doesn’t get endowed as such.”

“It wouldn’t have an occupant,” explained Mr. Sherkin, his face contorted with suppressed laughter. “That is to say, no one would hold the elevator except in the sense of keeping the door open.”

“Where do you put the plaque?” I asked.

“On the inside. Right next to the municipal inspection notice. In fact, the Grosbeaks would probably pay to have that old elevator I noticed over in your place redone as something far more efficient and safe.”

“Amazing.”

“Hey, it happens every day. And what’s really hot is the last-name deal.”

“The last-name deal?”

“Okay, it goes like this. Instead of the plaque on, say, a reception desk, stating THIS DESK GIVEN THROUGH THE GENEROSITY OF DICK AND DOTTY DICKHEAD, it just has a nice brass plate that says DICKHEAD. Because if you put up all that other stuff, it looks like someone just coughed up the bucks to get their name there. But if it just says DICKHEAD, it makes you stop for a minute and think, yeah, that Dickhead.”

“I see.”

“Isn’t that what Walter J. Annenberg did at Harvard?” Mr. Morin put in.

“Exactly. He gave several million dollars to Harvard just to have a dining hall named for him.”

“A dining hall?” I repeated with not entirely feigned incredulity.

“A freshman dining hall at that.”

“Amazing.”

“Well, it is a Harvard dining hall.”

“But a dining hall nonetheless.”

“Yes.”

“I mean a place where people eat.”

“Not really people, students. But eating is very important.”

All three were now openly tittering as Mr. Flaler