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A very starched-up little boy with strawberry juice frescoed around his mouth brought in a note from Maybelle and a tightly-rolled manuscript tied with blue baby-ribbon. In the note she said that she thought it would be so romantic to "write up her own wedding recalling the dear, dead days when she was a neophyte in letters."
"I have had such an immense number of sweethearts!" said the collar. "I could not be in peace! It is true, I was always a fine starched-up gentleman! I had both a boot-jack and a hair-comb, which I never used! You should have seen me then, you should have seen me when I lay down!
Suppose he turned out to be some awful, choleric person who would listen to no explanations. "Oh, see those starched-up collars! Hark how their captain hollers 'Keep time! Keep time! It's worth a thousand dollars To see those tip-collectors . . ." Very near now. Almost at the door. "Those upper-berth inspectors, Those Pullman porters on parade!"
"You've kept close to that starched-up Englishwoman all day, and now you snub me." "I didn't mean to, but you looked so funny I really couldn't help it," replied Meg, passing over the first part of his reproach, for it was quite true that she had shunned him, remembering the Moffat party and the talk after it.
"I have had such an immense number of sweet-hearts!" said the collar, "I could not be in peace! It is true, I was always a fine starched-up gentleman! I had both a bootjack and a hair-comb, which I never used! You should have seen me then, you should have seen me when I lay down!
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