Brown Turbans

As everyone knows, the beauty of the Langhorne sisters long was the pride of Virginia, the joy of the nation's portrait painters. Their fame spread far and wide, to England where Nancy Langhorne, as Viscountess Astor, brought beauty and sharp wits to Parliament; to Manhattan, where Irene Langhorne became the wife of Charles Dana Gibson, noted artist in pen and ink, who hung her picture from a myriad mouldings, the original "Gibson girl."

Not to be outdone by her politically active sister, Manhattan's Langhorne came last week to Houston. No scion of a Virginian First Family, no Maryland Ritchie or Bruce, held her allegiance; she marched in the parade of the Brown Derby.

Nor was she the only brown turbanite in the parade. Lightly as the Bosses appraise the worth of women in politics, they saw to it that Houston need yield nothing to Kansas City in the number, the beauty, the distinction of its lady delegates. Mabel Walker Willebrandts were scarce, but the Bosses could outmatch Leona Curtis Knight, daughter of mere Vice-Presidential Curtis, with Emily Smith Warner, favorite daughter of the Brown Derby himself. Delegate Warner was not unbefriended. Her mother, husband,* sister, three brothers, many in-laws, were among the watched and watching observers. But she missed her father, sent him cheering messages.

Her mother, the ample, friendly woman who had been Kitty Dunn, would be perhaps the most conspicuous, not the most distinguished of Houston's unofficial guests. Edith Boiling Gait Wilson, widow of Democracy's last President, held the Wilsonian mantle over the shoulders of the Brown Derby, deciding the dynastic succession. Observer Smith and Observer

Wilson had met before, had laughed together over a tale of a luncheon with President Coolidge in the Adirondacks.

Houston had beauty, Houston had distinction. It would not lack the authority of age and experience. From New York came Elizabeth Marbury, 72 years old by grace of exactly a week, vigorous social worker and business woman. Delegate Marbury could claim precedence, if she liked, over California's Gertrude Franklin Atherton, who will not be 71 until next Hallowe'en. Delegates wondered at the youthful appearance of Mrs. Atherton, ascribed it variously to the California climate, to her busy literary life, to her intense interest in the problems of rejuvenation.

Not easily missed would be Mrs. Jefferson Borden Harriman, seasoned veteran of conventions. Delegate Harriman bustled, conferred, entertained, all in the interests of the Brown Derby but with one eye on the features of Montana's rugged Walsh, onetime candidate. Did he frown, remembering earlier bustling, conferring, entertaining in his behalf? Did he smile, recalling that he had released his followers from political loyalty, if not from personal affection? Delegate Harriman speculated. In a dining-room high above Times Square, Manhattan, another friend lunched privately and importantly with his fellow princes of the press. Diminutive Louis Wiley, presiding over the business destinies of his paper, would see that the gowns, the epigrams of Delegate Harriman were not denied the readers of the Democratic, politically powerful New York Times.

* Major J. A. Warner, Supt. of the New York State Police.