Dr. Petticoat was enchanted. He saw the children first, asleep in their downy nests, tucked in by the skilled hands of the staff of trained nurses, and as he gazed on his offspring, his little tucked and quilted Petticoats, he named them Guelph and Ghibelline, after two of his illustrious ancestors and ran off at once to put up their names at various select and inaccessible clubs. CHAPTER XI Petticoat had five hobbies. Ptomaines, his collection of pieplates, Warble, his personal appearance and his Aunt Dressie. The last was one of the old Cotton-Petticoats, and in her younger days had been a flibbertigibbet. Was still, for that matter, but she flibbered differently now. She appeared unannounced, took up her favorite quarters in the N.N.W. wing, and permeated the household. Tall. Slender. Smart. Sport suits. Bobbed hair. Smoked cigars. About fifty-five, looked forty, acted thirty. Fond of boxing and immediately on her arrival hunted up the butler to spar with him, being a bit off condition. “I've no use for Bill,” she would say, “with his custard pie ideals, his soft-bosomed rooms and his purple and fine _lingerie_.” Then she'd embrace her nephew wildly, and promise to make him her heir. She looked at Warble appraisingly. “You're a tuppenny, ha'penny chit, with eyes like two holes burnt in a blanket, and a nose Mr. Micawber might have waited for, but you'll do. You get everything you want, without effort, and that's a rare trait. What do you think of me?” Warble made a face at her. “Corking!” screamed Aunt Dressie, “you come straight from heaven and you've slid into my soul. Does Bill love you?” “Not adequately.” “H'm. You love him?” “Oh, yeth!” “All right--love and grow thin, and then he'll come round. Or get a case of ptomaine poisoning--that'd help. But don't take the matter too lightly. If you want your husband, get him, if you don't, then let him go. “I've just let mine go. You see we had a place--a sort of Vegetarian and Free Love Community proposition, but it didn't work out so we sold it.” “And your husband?” “Oh, he's on his own for a while. I'm deciding what to fly at next. I always ask nephew Bill's advice so as to know what not to do.” “Forgot to mention it,” said Petticoat, strolling in, “but a few people are coming to-night to help me plan for my new Color Organ.” “What's that?” asked Warble, gazing at Petticoat in azure-eyed adoration. “Oh, Lord, don't you know _anything_? Tell her, Aunt Dressie!” and turning on his French heel, Petticoat walked delicately out of the room. “Treat him rough, Warble, you're an awful fool,” commented the older woman. “Why, a Color Organ is that marvelous new invention that plays color instead of sound.” “Color--instead of--sound--” “Yes--now don't try to understand, for you can't possibly. Go and play with the children.” “I won't. Tell me more about this thing.” “I won't. You can hear it to-night, when they all talk about it.” “What use is it?”