him for a wife; he will take the nearest girl, tell her his ideal,
and, if she really care for him, she will go to the shop and have
herself fixed up to his pattern. In certain Eastern countries, I
believe, something of this kind is done. A gentleman desirous of
adding to his family sends round the neighbourhood the weight and
size of his favourite wife, hinting that if another can be found of
the same proportions, there is room for her. Fathers walk round
among their daughters, choose the most likely specimen, and have her
fattened up. That is their brutal Eastern way. Out West we shall be
more delicate. Match-making mothers will probably revive the old
confession book. Eligible bachelors will be invited to fill in a
page: "Your favourite height in women," "Your favourite measurement
round the waist," "Do you like brunettes or blondes?"

The choice will be left to the girls.

"I do think Henry William just too sweet for words," the maiden of
the future will murmur to herself. Gently, coyly, she will draw from
him his ideal of what a woman should be. In from six months to a
year she will burst upon him, the perfect She; height, size, weight,
right to a T. He will clasp her in his arms.

"At last," he will cry, "I have found her, the woman of my dreams."

And if he does not change his mind, and the bottles do not begin to
lose their effect, there will be every chance that they will be happy
ever afterwards.

Might not Science go even further? Why rest satisfied with making a
world of merely beautiful women? Cannot Science, while she is about