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 XXXIX

Branton Hills was talking about Councilman Simpkins; for Councilman Simpkins just didn’t look natural; and Councilman Simpkins didn’t act natural. In fact, Councilman Simpkins was crawling out of his old cocoon; and, though an ugly, snarling dowdy worm had lain for so long, shut up in that tight mass of wrappings around his brain, now a gay, smiling moth was coming out; for Councilman Simpkins was “dolling up!”

If Bill Gadsby was known as a “tailor-shop’s outdoor part,” Old Bill was not a part. No, Old Bill was that tailor shop—outdoor, indoor, or without a door. In fact, Councilman Simpkins now had “it,” such as our films talk about so much today.

But Simpkins’ outfit was not flashy or “loud.” Suits of good cloth, hats of stylish form, always a bright carnation “just south of his chin,” boots always glossy, and a smart, springy walk, had all Broadway gasping as this Apollo-vision swung jauntily along. Nancy, happy, giggling Nancy, was “all of a grin” about this magic transformation; and, with that old, inborn instinct of womanhood, told Lucy:—