Swathed in furs she viewed the Bay of Angels in wintry Nice. And for Sophia Loren, 30, her dark glasses must have seemed rose-colored, because Producer Carlo Ponti, 52, has been granted French citizenship, and has carte blanche in France to marry her. He wed her before, but was forced to annul the marriage when their native Italy threatened bigamy proceedings; it does not recognize his 1957 Mexican divorce from his first wife. Carlo and Sophia celebrated with a tricolored cake, and Ponti displayed Gallic finesse when asked if they would remarry. "It is not excluded," said he.

Greeting a lady acquaintance in Tucson, Hubert Horatio Humphrey, 53, leaned to kiss her, and she drew back startled. "Don't worry," he joked. "I'm not the one with the cold." He was almost the only one without it. Texas Congressman Wright Potman, 71, announced proudly from Bethesda Naval Hospital that he had a cold "just like the President's." Oklahoma Senator Mike Monroney, 62, checked into Walter Reed Army Hospital with laryngitis, followed by Defense Secretary Robert McNamara, 48, with a "respiratory infection." Pennsylvania's Governor William Scranton, 47, and New York's former Senator Kenneth Keating, 64, were snuffling in Harrisburg and Washington's Georgetown University Hospital respectively, while guess who at week's end was nursing the latest status symbol? H.H.H.

Three years ago, when she visited New Delhi, Jackie Kennedy, 35, stayed with Indira Gandhi, 47, daughter of Jawaharlal Nehru. Now it was Jackie's turn to welcome Mrs. Gandhi. In Manhattan's boxed-glass Union Carbide Building, they inaugurated a photographic government exhibit, "Nehru, His Life and Times," before a black-tie bazaar of 1,700 notables, including the U.N. Secretary-General, U.S. Vice President, New York Governor, both New York Senators, and five former ambassadors to India.

"I suppose I sold more milk than anybody who ever lived." No, that's not Elsie the Borden cow speaking but Elmer Verner McCollum, who in 1918, as a University of Wisconsin researcher, first identified vitamin A in butterfat. He followed this in 1922 with the discovery (in cod-liver oil) of vitamin D, now irradiated in a goodly portion of the nation's milk. Though retired from his last post, as professor of biochemistry at Baltimore's Johns Hopkins University, he writes and conducts experiments there, at 85 a lively testimonial to the balanced diet (in his case, it includes two glasses of buttermilk a day). This week he will accept the first $1,000 McCollum Award from the American Society for Clinical Nutrition.

He was, among many other things, the U.N.'s first military commander in chief. So, in honor of what would have been his 85th birthday, his widow Jean joined city officials in dedicating a Manhattan street and park bounding U.N. headquarters as General Douglas Mac-Arthur Plaza.

Only that afternoon, Washington Hostess Gwen Cafritz, 54, had told her son Carter, "We don't need a burglar alarm." So when she walked into the bedroom of her 58-room mansion, saw the lights go out, and felt an arm around her neck, she figured it was his idea of a gag. "Cut it out, Carter," she snapped, then realized her words were too much to the point, since one of the four strange men there had a knife. The thugs took $400,000 worth of jewels, including a $100,000 diamond necklace, and the $36,000 diamond-and-emerald neckpiece that she really favors (it photographs best). Still, it was all insured, and if anybody knows of a good burglar-alarm salesman . . .

Since he was mustered out of the Army in 1944, James Jones, 43, has scribbled for Manhattan's Charles A. Scribner's Sons, earning more than $1,500,000 for his four novels, despite some cracks from critics on Some Came Running, The Pistol and The Thin Red Line. In the drugstores, however, Jones's paperbacks have sold 5,000,000 copies, and Delacorte Press, hardcover subsidiary of Dell softback publishers, decided to give ex-Private Jones a promotion. They signed to print his next three novels at a minimum of $700,000 each plus another $250,000, depending on sales. While the dough may not last from here to eternity, at least, says the author, now a Paris expatriate, "I won't have to work for the movies again."

In his heart, Barry Goldwater, 56, wants to be back in the Senate. But since the next seat from Arizona, that of 86-year-old Carl Hayden, is not due for contest before 1968, and Goldwater has no intention of moving to another state, he has time on his hands. With Wife Peggy on his arm, he took in the Manhattan premiere party of How to Murder Your Wife at El Morocco. And who to his wondering eyes should appear but Murder's costar, Virna Lisi, 27, stooping to conquer from her limousine.

This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so reader's discretion is required.