"This is not a love-in," squawked a pimply bacchante, "it's a cash-in." And so it was--another ingenious cash-in by the eleemosynarily inspired Duke of Bedford, 50, who for a price stands ever-ready to throw open the gate of historic, debt-encrusted Woburn Abbey.

This time it was a three-day frolic billed as the world's largest love-in, admission $2.80 per day, hot dogs 250 each. More than 12,000 tinkling hippies and mods made the sad scene, went away unloved (boy-girl ratio: 5 to 1), unstoned (200 constables prowled the premises in search of pot), and unmoved by the 15 jangling psychedelic bands. Though the flower children wilted, the duke got a large charge ($14,000 net) out of the love-in, and the duchess was pretty jolted herself. "I was away from Woburn," she said. "I thought these people were holding a flower festival."

Scant days remained before his concert at the St.-Tropez Festival, and Pianist Byron Janis, 39, was staring straight into the jaws of une veritable debacle. His new white dinner jacket, a double-breasted poem in paper limned especially for him by Haute Couturier Pierre Cardin, had proved a grabber in the armpits. "Rush me another," pled the pianist. "I have to move my arms."

Seizing his scissors, Cardin fashioned another, chestier paper jacket, put it on the evening jet from Paris to Nice, whence it was whisked by helicopter to Janis mere moments before the performance. Pausing only to snip off some excess sleeve, Janis donned the coat and played his concert to pandemonious applause. And why a paper dinner jacket in the first place? Well, in the first place it's pretty chic; and--uh--Janis works up quite a sweat.

Nothing earns so much sympathy these days as the plight of the second-class citizen, and even the Duchess of Windsor, 70, qualifies. The Duchess "has been officially relegated to the position of a second-class wife," complains British Genealogist Philip Thomas in the latest edition of the authoritative Burke's Peerage. The harsh terms of her morganatic marriage to the abdicated King Edward VIII in 1937 were "the most flagrant act of discrimination in the whole history of our dynasty," Thomas fumed, arguing that she ought to be recognized as the "consort of a royal prince" and referred to as "Her Royal Highness" instead of having to scruff along as "Her Grace."

Among long-distance saltwater swallowers, the treacherous 22-mile strait from the Farallon Islands to the California mainland near San Francisco has a reputation roughly like Mount Everest's.

Close to 50 swimmers have tried the crossing and been defeated by the strong currents and numbing cold. Last week Stewart Evans, 41, an Army lieutenant colonel who had spent five months training for the assault, marched down to a beach on the Farallons, smeared himself with great gobs of a "secret" cold-protective grease and stroked off--straight into a school of jellyfish. For two hours, his left arm was nearly useless with excruciating pain, but he somehow kept going until the pain subsided, after a total of 13 hrs. 44 min. 52 sec.

finally touched bottom, only to pitch forward exhausted in the shallow water. "Crawl, Stew, crawl," shouted his wife Pauline from the beach at Point Bonita--and Evans slowly crawled out of the water straight to her side.

Manhattan's sidewalk spectators are getting to be fairly ho-hum about movies shot on location, but this one was a real buzzer. Star of the film was Mia Farrow, 22, whose mob quotient has gone up considerably since she married Whosis, and furthermore didn't she seem to be--giggle blush--just a teensy bit preggers? Yes she did, and in no mood to dillydally about it, either. One day she was barely bulgy, the next she seemed six months along, and within a week she was 14 months pregnant. By this time even the most motherly fan had guessed that Mia's baby was really Rosemary's Baby, and that the father was an unknown pillow stuffer in Paramount's wardrobe department.

The romance had basic troubles right from the start, one of them being L.B.J.'s habit of calling him "Charlie." But for the surprising span of 25 months, in Washington and Acapulco, New York and Hollywood, Lynda Bird Johnson, 23, and Hollywood Climber George Hamilton, 28, were a more or less serious item on the nation's front pages.

Now, as Lynda Bird told a friend, "it's all over." Chin waggers guessed that the rift really opened in July, when vacationing Lynda was left twiddling her toes in London for three weeks while George struggled unsuccessfully to escape from Aristotle Onassis' yacht in the Mediterranean. As Hamilton confirmed all with a "We shall always be friends" statement, Lynda Bird let it be known that she has not been wholly unhappy recently in the company of Marine Captain and White House Aide Charles Robb, 28, her favorite bridge partner and her host at a beach bash in Delaware over the Fourth of July weekend.

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