"Oh, yes!" Miss Stapylton assented, hastily; "I remember perfectly. I
know all about him, thank you. And it was that beautiful boy, Olaf, that
young-eyed cherub, who developed into a musty old man who wrote musty
old books, and lived a musty, dusty life all by himself, and never
married or had any fun at all! How _horrid_, Olaf!" she cried, with a
queer shrug of distaste.

"I fail," said Colonel Musgrave, "to perceive anything--ah--horrid in a
life devoted to the study of anthropology. His reputation when he died
was international."

"But he never had any fun, you jay-bird! And, oh, Olaf! Olaf! that boy
could have had so much fun! The world held so much for him! Why, Fortune
is only a woman, you know, and what woman could have refused him
anything if he had smiled at her like that when he asked for it?"

Miss Stapylton gazed up at the portrait for a long time now, her hands
clasped under her chin. Her face was gently reproachful.

"Oh, boy dear, boy dear!" she said, with a forlorn little quaver in her
voice, "how _could_ you be _so_ foolish? _Didn't_ you know there was
something better in the world than grubbing after musty old tribes and
customs and folk-songs? Oh, precious child, how could you?"

Gerald Musgrave smiled back at her, ambiguously; and Rudolph Musgrave
laughed. "I perceive," said he, "you are a follower of Epicurus. For my
part, I must have fetched my ideals from the tub of the Stoic. I can
conceive of no nobler life than one devoted to furthering the cause of
science."