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

With more than a wisp of misgiving, millionaire ex-Bricklayer John B. Kelly and his wife Margaret, parents of Monaco's Princess (High Society) Grace, settled uneasily into theater seats for the Philadelphia opening of a new musical, Happy Hunting. The show, attended by scads of the Kellys' neighboring Mainliners, was a benefit performance for Mrs. Kelly's charity, Philadelphia's Woman's Medical College. Soon, while others there tittered nervously, Jack and Margaret Kelly learned the worst: Happy Hunting not only satirized the wedding of Grace and Prince Rainier, but also used everybody's real names and even called Monaco Monaco. One ditty in the show, starring Ethel Merman, gaily spoofed "social climbers, wisenheimers" and informed listening Mainliners that they are "snooty snobs." Grace's sister Lizanne made her exit before the first-act curtain--"to get home to the baby-sitter." Thunderous applause burst out when one line of the script grudgingly allowed: "All the Kellys are nice people." Rainier and Grace had fortunately missed the show, preferring to stay in Maryland with friends, as the Princess's mother coolly explained their absence. When the long evening was over, Mrs. Kelly summed up her distaste for its theme: "Something so precious and sacred should not be exploited for profit."

Mum on palace discords back home in The Netherlands (TIME, Oct. 29), Prince Bernhard, seeming to be enjoying every moment of his bachelor vacation away from Queen Juliana, concentrated on donning a life preserver at Jacksonville. Fla. An able airman and best-known jet pilot among Europe's royalty, Bernhard then flew off to the aircraft carrier Forrestal for an informal two-day fling with the U.S.'s Atlantic Fleet.

Between drafty exposures at an airy London nightspot, Minnesota-born Stripper Lili St. Cyr cited another visitor to Britain, Cinemorsel Marilyn Monroe, as an unchic example of how not to dress when not in professional dishabille. Strange as it seems, Lili deplored Marilyn's strains at the seams: "I do wish that she would dress better. I don't think it's nice to show too much. It's embarrassing for one's escort."

The prexy of Manhattan's Barnard College, Mrs. Millicent C. Mclntosh, presented a citation to one of her opposite numbers from the Orient, minute Mrs. Kaoru Hatoyama, wife of Japan's Premier and head of Kyoritsu Women's College. Kaoru Hatoyama was on her way home from Moscow, where her ailing husband got crumbs from the Kremlin table in signing a decade-delayed peace treaty with the Russians.

During a rehearsal of the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra in London, Britain's trigger-tempered maestro, Sir Thomas Beecham, an irascible 77, soothed himself by trying to make music on a sheng, an old wind that few modern Chinese blow good. The cluster of fluty pipes had been presented to Beecham, himself no mean player of the piano and trombone, by touring orchestra members of Red China's Variety Theater.

Spry old (77) Lord Beveridge, whose widely debated report of 1942 set Britain firmly on the path of womb-to-tomb social security, bounced briefly back into the limelight to complain to his fellow Liberals that the path to his own tomb is studded with inflationary obstacles these days. After retiring from his last government job, Beveridge had felt secure about having enough gold for his golden years: "I was able to take with me for superannuation enough pounds to feel fairly happy for my future. Now each of those pounds is worth six shillings, eight pence. Our plans for useful old age are all going haywire . . . Like many others in their seventies ... I am in danger of living longer than I can afford to live."

Chicago's Patroness of Arts Ellen Borden Stevenson, ex-wife of the Democratic presidential candidate, announced that The Egghead and I (a collection of "essays, satirical verse and excerpts from my diaries concerning the 'egghead' in national affairs--a problem we all face") is now "canceled" and will not be published as previously vouchsafed (TIME, Aug. 20). Ellen had pestered many publishers to vent her polemic, but had failed to crash through with a manuscript. Muttered one Chicago literary agent: "She had a good title, and that was about it." Despite her provocative title, Ellen Borden Stevenson insisted that her stillborn work "did not concern or discuss the personal life of Candidate Stevenson." To appease breathless bibliophiles, she let prying newshawks in on one fragment of admonition that would have appeared in Egghead. Advice to the Lovelorn Voter advises:

Some men are like balloons, my dear,

And I will tell you why.

They're very bright and light and

round--

Their limit is the sky.

The ground is strewn with thorny truths

On which they dare not lie.

And if they weren't so full of air, . .

They wouldn't go so high!

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