Names make news. Last week these names made this news:

After triumphantly brushing past a maid who had orders to keep her out, Barbara ("Bobo") Rockefeller, estranged wife of Winthrop Rockefeller, consolidated her beachhead in his 15-room Park Avenue apartment by winning permission to come & go as she pleased. Winthrop was in Little Rock. Ark., ostensibly to go into business but more likely to qualify himself for a divorce after three months' residence. Scoffed Bobo: "He's not the barefoot-boy type. He has not suddenly fallen in love with the heartland of America." For a self-proclaimed old-fashioned girl, twice-married Bobo (her first was Socialite Richard Sears) stirred up a fine lot of publicity. She was going to establish that marriage "is no whimsy," and would fight any "cheap mail-order divorce." Furthermore, she said, "I intend to be a Mrs. Rockefeller until the day I die." Winthrop's $1,000,000 trust fund for her was "revocable" and "not worth the paper it was written on." And while poking around the apartment, reporters said, she was shocked to find photographs of other women, as well as unfamiliar bathing suits and lingerie. From Little Rock came only a frosty reply to press inquiries: "Mr. Rockefeller has adopted a policy of refusing to engage in a public argument with his wife."

Softcover, tough-guy Author Mickey (My Gun Is Quick) Spillane was all set for his acting debut as co-star with Lion Trainer Clyde Beatty of the 3-D film Man-Killer. His main screen assets: a squint, a crew cut, 5 ft. 8 in. of muscles. Spillane, in the manner of his hero, gore-spilling Private Eye Mike Hammer, will play a detective in hot pursuit of a homicidal maniac.

Photographers covering Yugoslavia's Marshal Tito at his summer headquarters on Brioni Island in the Adriatic snapped him sitting in the sun with a tanned and traveled visitor, Adlai Stevenson. After lunch and talk, Stevenson pushed on to Greece to pick up son Borden, thence to Rome to meet son John Fell.

With Princess Margaret off to Southern Rhodesia for the Cecil Rhodes centenary celebration, British tongues were wagging over the announcement that R.A.F. Group Captain Peter Townsend, an equerry to Queen Elizabeth and one of Margaret's favorite escorts, had been transferred from the royal household to the post of air attache in Brussels. The move came soon after U.S. press reports that Margaret "is in love" with the handsome captain. Had the royal family acted to head off a match with a man who is not only a commoner but 38, divorced and the father of two children? British newshens clucked and asked if that was why the Princess looked so sad and wan in her latest pictures from Africa. From Rhodesia came another explanation: the bite of Rhodesia's cold wave. Queen Mother Elizabeth and Margaret stepped off their Comet in light summer dresses, have been shivering and forcing smiles ever since. Added mishap: the Queen Mother's hatbox got away from the 49 other pieces of royal luggage, wound up 600 miles away in Johannesburg.

Although Motorist Harry Truman told reporters that he was just "perking along" as he drove west with Bess after their week's New York visit, to Pennsylvania Patrolman Manley Stampler it looked more as if he were zipping along. The trooper flagged Harry down on the Pennsylvania Turnpike for cutting in front of passing cars--notably his own patrol car. "I just warned him not to do it again,'' said Stampler. "Mr. Truman promised to be more careful."

In Manhattan, after interviewing returning notables on the Queen Elizabeth, newsmen caught a glimpse and no more of Conductor Leopold Stokowski, back from Europe incognito (his traveling alias: Anthony Stanley) and minus his heiress wife, Gloria Vanderbilt Stokowski. Shielding his face with a black coat, he ducked out of his cabin, hurried down the gangplank and off in a waiting limousine.

Ohio's Author-Farmer Louis Bromfield appeared in a Columbus department store to peddle a new brand of fertilizer ("Fertileze") he had helped develop. Tired and jittery after coping with would-be customers, he decided one day was enough ("Too many questions to be answered"), went straight back to Malabar Farm.

In Manhattan, for the second year in a row, the Harmon International Aviation Award for the year's outstanding performance by an aviatrix went to French Test Pilot Jacqueline Auriol, daughter-in-law of President Vincent Auriol. Her 1952 prizewinning feat: topping her own world's jet speed record for women by flying a 62-mile closed course at an average 531.843 m.p.h.

While Sir Laurence Olivier and his actress wife Vivien Leigh gave a dinner party at their Buckinghamshire farm (the guests: Composer Sir William Walton, Actor Sir Ralph Richardson and their ladies), burglars got into the house. Using Olivier's own ladder, they looted a bedroom of $19,600 worth of jewels and furs. Gentleman Farmer ("I keep a few pigs") Olivier recalled that his London home had been robbed in March, decided: "It is just not our year." Jockey Sir Gordon Richards, on the other hand, was convinced that there is some honor among thieves when his stolen spurs and gold cigarette case, a gift from King George V, turned up in the Scotland Yard mailbag after his public appeals to the thief's "sportsmanship."

After a quiet crossing from New York on the S.S. Flandre, Author Ernest Hemingway bared his teeth for Paris photographers at the Ritz when asked to appraise a salmon caught by his host, Charles Ritz, son of the late, famed Hotelkeep Cesar Ritz. Before going on to hunt elephants in Africa, Hemingway hoped to do some fishing in the Pyrenees, told a French reporter he was traveling light with two fishing rods, two revolvers and no typewriter. "I started my writing career with a typewriter," he said. "Today I use a pencil."

Marking the appearance in Paris bookshops of Orson Welles's autobiography, Une Grosse Legume (literally, A Fat Vegetable, i.e., a big shot), France's weekly Les Nouvelles Litteraires called on the author for some observations on the arts. Excerpts: "The essential is to excite the spectators. If that means playing Hamlet on a flying trapeze or in an aquarium, you do it ... I rather think the cinema will die. Look at the energy being exerted to revive it--yesterday it was color, today three dimensions. I don't give it 40 years more . . . The public doesn't know how to listen any more. Witness the decline of conversation . . . Only the Irish have remained incomparable conversationalists, maybe because technical progress has passed them by."

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