Martin: What the hell are you doing?
Daphne: Ironing your son's socks.
Martin: Why don't you just twist them into little balls like you do mine?
Daphne: He says it bruises the cashmere. He likes them pressed, folded, then neatly arranged in those sock dividers. I saw them in a catalog once, but couldn't imagine who in the world would ever buy such silly things. Of course, I hadn't met Dr. Crane yet.
Martin: I used to think there'd been some sort of mix-up at the hospital. Of course, when Niles came along it shot that theory all to hell.