And then!

Mr. Weil's shoes lay on the floor, in the disorder of a bachelor who had
never in his life taken pains to put anything in the place where it
really belonged. He took out the studs of his shirt, pulled that garment
over his head, and then sat for some minutes wrapped in active thought.

"They must be introduced to each other!" he exclaimed, at last. "Between
them they have every qualification for success; apart they are like the
separated wheels of a watch. There is Shirley, with a style so sweetly
subtle, a grace so perfect, every line a gem; and with it all not a sign
of human emotion. There is Millicent, full of plot and daring and
breathing characters, and bold conceptions, and no more able to write
good English than an Esquimaux squaw. I have both these interesting
persons on my hands, and I must combine them, for their mutual good.

"I wonder what Gouger will say when I unfold my plan. Perhaps I had best
not tell him. He actually came near threatening, to-day, to send a line
to Miss Fern, warning her against me. He wouldn't have done it, though.
Lawrence has a bark that is worse than his bite by a great deal. Yes,
I'll bring these young folks together. I'll take them as Hermann does
the rabbits, and press them gently but firmly into one. And then sha'n't
we get a combination! And won't Mr. Lawrence Gouger hug himself when the
product of their joint endeavor comes to him for a reading!"

The muser finished disrobing and donned his night robes, but it was a
long time before he felt like slumber. He could think of nothing but his
scheme. As he revolved it over in his mind, it took many new forms. At
first Roseleaf was to be asked to rewrite the story that Miss Fern had
offered Cutt & Slashem. And afterwards there must be an entirely new
novel, conceived together and worked out slowly, using the best of what
was brightest in both of them.

The last idea Mr. Weil had before he relapsed into unconsciousness
contained two novels, worked out at the same time. Roseleaf was all
right, if he could only get a glimpse of realism into his work. Miss
Fern would have no trouble if her ideas could find a garb that suited
them.

There would be a way to make them of service to each other, and the time
to cross a bridge is always when you come to it. So thought Archie Weil,
as he fell asleep.

In the morning he laughed to think of the description he had given to
Shirley, in his offhand way, of "the perfect woman." It