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The almost forgotten Prince of Monaco, Pierre de Polignac, was greeted at Los Angeles' International Airport by his renowned son and ruler of the vest-pocket principality, Prince Rainier III. Prince Pierre had come to see Rainier's fiancee. Cinemactress Grace Kelly, and to help plan the April wedding strategy. Meanwhile, on a nearby movie set, Grace rested between scenes of her new film High Society, looking startlingly thin in an unflattering classic-cut bathing suit. Was this a new New Look? Roving U.P. Columnist Gloria Swanson thought so and hailed it. From Rome ex-Screen Siren Swanson cabled: "Now with . . . America's Grace Kelly leading the flat-chested brigade, leaving behind . . . all the other sweater girls, I hope it won't be long before Italy's overgrown divas will be the last contestants in the international Miss Community Chest contests."
Back on top in star billing after 16 lost years of bottle-belting, plus nearly ten dry years spent climbing back to the heights, ex-Movie Musicomedienne and Autobiographer Lillian (I'll Cry Tomorrow) Roth, 45, was drawing dewy-eyed patrons and rave notices at Manhattan's prim Hotel Plaza. Between shows, where she belted out old songs she had made famous, e.g., When the Red, Red Robin Comes Bob, Bob, Bobbin' Along, vibrant Songstress Roth philosophized about her old problem. Hearing a report that Actress Diana Barrymore (TIME, Jan. 23) had spent only five weeks in a sanitarium (where she had voluntarily consigned herself to be treated for alcoholism for a planned six months), Lillian said: "I'd keep my fingers crossed. If you've given a whole life to self-destruction, it's worth a half year listening to somebody about it—even if it's the most awful six months of your life." Did Lillian condone the tactics of oldtime, hatchet-swinging Saloon Wrecker Carry Nation? She smiled: "You get nowhere with smashing and breaking. The only way to carry a nation to sobriety is to persuade it to carry itself."
On his way to some revelry in Miami, ripening (54) Bon Vivant Lucius ("Luscious") Beebe, now publisher of the Virginia City, Nev. Territorial Enterprise, rolled into Jacksonville in his elegant private railroad car (accouterments: three master bedrooms, a Turkish bath, a wine closet, a St. Bernard dog woofing to the name of Mr. T-Bone Towser). Local reporters converged on the track where Beebe was parked with his traveling companion, Charles Clegg. Q.: "How much did this rolling stock cost?" Beebe (Shuddering slightly): "That's vulgar!" Clegg (to newsmen): "I wouldn't ask how much your suit cost." Beebe: "But Governor Harriman just bought a railroad car for $500,000." Clegg: "And they tell me it's real plain." A newshen (to Beebe's chef): "What do they drink, mostly?" Chef: "Everything, lady."
For years Madame Chiang Kai-shek has suffered from a nerve ailment that causes painful skin rashes. Recently, her friends noted a sudden improvement in her condition, asked her what had happened. Reportedly replied Madame: "My good health is due to a soup made of white doves. It is simply wonderful as a tonic. I advise you to try it!"*