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

Minstreling through Dixie, Dreamboat Groaner Elvis ("The Pelvis") Presley proved that in the rock-'n'-roll business it helps to be daffy. In Charlotte, N.C. he deeply impressed the local Observer's observer: "Presley burst onto the stage, staggering and flailing like a moth caught in a beam of light." Flouncing down to Charleston, S.C., the twitchy bobby-soxers' twitchy idol made an even deeper impression upon the press. The local News & Courier sent one of its newshens, customarily safe in its education department, to try to talk to Presley and photograph him. As she aimed her camera at him. Presley impetuously leaned over and gave her a love bite on the hand. The lady reporter protested. Wagging his tail cordially, Dixie Pixy Presley drawled: "I was only trying to be friendly, like a little puppy dog." This explanation was rejected, so Elvis got down to the crass method in his madness: "Lady, if you want to get ahead, you gotta be different."

In Cairo, in the wake of a rash of ceremonies celebrating Egypt's freedom from foreign troops, the newly brassbound Chief of Staff of the brand-new Moroccan army, moonfaced Mouldy Hassan, 28 (whose new rank is explained by his competence and his nearness to Morocco's Sultan Sidi Mohammed ben Yousef, his father), got off a neat bit of guidance for neutrals being courted by two worlds. Said he: "We are Moslems and have the right to be bigamists. We can marry both the East and the West, and remain faithful to our spouses."

At the British premiere of her circus-set movie Trapeze (TIME. June 11), Italy's Cinemactress Gina Lollobrigida busted forth in London in the company of Sir Laurence Olivier, who unaccountably let his gaze stray to other things.

Vacationing in Los Angeles after an endless stint of "lecturing, writing, making television appearances," Washington's Hostess-with-the-Mostes' Perle Mesta confessed that she has turned mercenary for a good purpose. Her pet project: subsidizing 18 foreign students in their U.S. studies, footing all bills including those for tooth paste. Said Philanthropist Mesta: "That's why I have to work so hard, but why shouldn't I do it? Got no husband, got no family. Just a widow with a small income, eatin' money." Turning from stern fiscal realities to light philosophy, Perle reminisced about her old job as U.S. Minister to Luxembourg: "I learned to stop and listen. Told that to a reporter one day, and I got a letter from a woman who said, 'Thank God, you've learned to keep your big mouth shut.' "

Bobbing through Manhattan on her way to Hollywood and the direct-object role in a movie called I Married a Woman, platinum-crowned Diana Dors, Britain's most glamorous current export, singled out the thing she likes best in this first visit to America: "I've discovered air conditioning! You may quote me as saying that since I came to America I'd rather sleep with air conditioning than with my husband!" Chimed in her husband, handsome British Realty Man Dennis Hamilton: "But I expect a reconciliation imminently."

At Berlin's Eighth International. Film Festival, yup-talking Cinemactor Gary (The Court-Martial of Billy Mitchell) Cooper sipped cheer with Italy's Cinema-donna Silvano (O.K. Nero) Pampanini, discreetly stared at her glittering necklace.

Tireless Tourist Harry Truman whirled about England before sailing back to the U.S. after a seven-week European gallivant. At a dinner given for him by U.S. Ambassador to the Court of St. James's Winthrop Aldrich, Truman bumped into bodkin-tongued, Virginia-born Lady Astor. Cabled King Features Syndicate Taveloguer Truman: "My old friend and verbal sparring partner . . . The first time I met Lady Astor . . . I told her I was more of a Southern Democrat than she, because she had turned British and was no longer even an American citizen. She left me abruptly." This time, sparring was better: "I like her, and I know she likes the boss (Bess) and thinks she was a great First Lady." The Trumans also lunched with Queen Elizabeth II, scooted from the royal groaning board to watch the tennis at Wimbledon, two days later embarked at Southampton.

Acting less and less like his Great Profiled papa, Cinemactor John (The Big Night) Barrymore Jr., 24, unreeled a picture of Hollywood home life that sounded almost too good to be true. First of all he does not share the conditioned Barrymoreflex for strong spirits. Said he soberly: "I'm the worst teetotaler you ever met. I just can't stand the stuff. I don't mean I haven't tried it. You'd be a hypocrite to hate liquor without trying it . . . Nowadays, one shot of Scotch will fill me up to here." Then young John explained how he works out his marriage with carrot-topped Actress Cara Williams: "Cara loves to gamble. I hate it. So every week or so, I let her go out to a poker match with some men while I stay home with the children . . ." Cara, also on hand for the interview, took a misogynous view of her favorite sport: "I really love poker, but I can't stand the way women play it. . . They always want to play ridiculous games like Spit-in-the-Ocean with threes, sevens and tens wild."

As the sun set on the big Connecticut farmhouse, grey-haired Mama Miller and her balding husband Isidore sat on the porch and talked about "the children." "I made a chicken," fretted Mama, a Brooklyn housewife. "I wish I knew whether they're coming home, so I would know how much potatoes to make." Papa, a retired cloak-and-suiter, consoled her: "Don't worry. I don't think they've forgotten us." At 9:30 p.m., the children returned to Roxbury. To nobody's surprise, Pulitzer Prizewinning Playwright Arthur (Death of a Salesman) Miller, 40, and Cinemactress Marilyn Monroe, 30, had slipped across the nearby New York State line and got married in suburban White Plains. The day had been marred by a tragic interlude: Russian Princess Mara Scherbatoff, 48, New York bureau chief of France's weekly Paris Match, was killed when her car, pursuing the lovers down a hairpin road, rammed a tree. But now, at Playwright Miller's rural retreat, joy was unbounded. Mama Miller hauled out her chicken and everybody dug into the wedding feast. In the big cities the headlines were beginning to roar the news, OUR MAN KISSED THE BRIDE, brayed the New York Post in a Page-One banner. "It's the happiest meal I've ever eaten!" bubbled Marilyn. She impulsively bussed Arthur Miller, who husked: "It couldn't be better. We are married, and now the world can go back to what it was doing." At week's end, Playwright Miller had six more days in which to name his onetime Red associates for the House UnAmerican Activities Committee or risk not getting a passport for an English honeymoon with Marilyn. Optimistically, he had already leased a sumptuous love nest in London's suburbs.

Legging down a Hollywood report that the estranged wife of Actor Edward G. (The Middle of the Night) Robinson has formally accused him of shacking up with a brunette in his Manhattan penthouse, New York Daily Newsman Howard Wantuch made a surprise call at Robinson's aerie. To Wantuch's own surprise, the elevator disgorged him, unannounced, smack in the middle of the tough guy's living room. Then in strolled the doll, Fashion Designer Jane Adler, 42, named in Gladys Robinson's complaint. As the brunette swiftly exited, Actor Robinson, 62, bounced up at stage center, reached for no shoulder-holstered gat, but rasped: "Do you think it's right to walk in on people like this?" Apologizing, Newshawk Wantuch, his tabloid fodder virtually in the hopper, edged back for the elevator amidst running dialogue with Robinson, whose 29-year marriage was never more on the rocks. Robinson: "Are you married?" Wantuch: "Yes." Robinson: "First' marriage?" Wantuch (uneasily): "Yes. Twenty years." Robinson (his lip curling with a quiver): "Keep it that way!" Curtain.

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