'Mistress widow!' said the shirt-collar, 'dear mistress widow! I
am becoming another man, all my creases are coming out; you are
burning a hole in me! Ugh! Stop, I implore you!'

'You rag!' said the iron, travelling proudly over the
shirt-collar, for it thought it was a steam engine and ought to
be at the station drawing trucks.

'Rag!' it said.

The shirt-collar was rather frayed out at the edge, so the
scissors came to cut off the threads.

'Oh!' said the shirt-collar, 'you must be a dancer! How high you
can kick! That is the most beautiful thing I have ever s een!
No man can imitate you!'

'I know that!' said the scissors.

'You ought to be a duchess!' said the shirt-collar. 'My worldly
possessions consist of a fine gentleman, a boot-jack, and a
hair-brush. If only I had a duchy!'

'What! He wants to marry me?' said the scissors, and she was so
angry that she gave the collar a sharp snip, so that it had to be
cast aside as good for nothing.

'Well, I shall have to propose to the hair-brush!' thought the
shirt-collar. 'It is really wonderful what fine hair you have,
madam! Have you never thought of marrying?'