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

For Spain's dashing ex-Matador Luis Miguel Dominguin, 29, whose chief exploit since quitting the bull ring was his fervent pursuit of much-chased Cinemactress Ava (The Barefoot Contessa) Gardner, it meant restoration to fame and fortune in one phenomenally fell stroke. News raced across Spain that Dominguin had won El Gordo ("the fat one"), the $1,125,000 first prize in the nation's biggest lottery of the year. To the press, Dominguin grandly announced that a million pesetas would go to the poor orphan lad who had pulled the fat one from the ticket basket. Sentimental Spaniards were deeply touched by this generous gesture. But they were even more deeply moved next day, when it became obvious that Luis Miguel had been dreaming out loud; he had not won so much as a centimo in the lottery. Nobody seemed to know just how the phony story of his great luck had originated, but Spain's press had strong suspicions that Dominguin was ravenous for the sort of glorious acclaim he once got by cleanly killing bulls.

In a Chicago bank building, Lawyer Adlai Stevenson was found poring over a law book on his first day in a fancy new office. Diligently working now on several cases, Stevenson waved his hand around the big room and explained: "I've got to pay for this conspicuous poverty." His next date with politics: indefinite.

Debonair in a silk scarf and herringbone topcoat, and physically not fading at all, General Douglas MacArthur who will be 75 this month, left his 37th-floor apartment in Manhattan's Waldorf Towers to commute by limousine to his job in suburban Connecticut. As Remington Rand Inc.'s $68,600-a-year board chairman, MacArthur makes two or three such trips a week. In his fourth year of retirement as a soldier, he is seldom seen, presumably spends much time in the towers with his family and his memories.

Miami Beach's tensely anxious Sans Souci Hotel readied the full treatment for its imminent guests, the touring Shah of Iran and his luscious Queen Soraya. The protocol section of the U.S. State Department was also concerned: it wanted to restrain the overzealous hotel from whipping up the Shah's visit into a lather of commercialized hullabaloo. The Sans Souci insouciantly proceeded to run a red carpet from its lobby to the street, redecorate a 16-room wing as the imperial suite, paint the Shah's coat of arms on every royal door in sight. Hardheaded U.S. Marine Corps Commandant Lemuel Shepherd Jr. declined the hotel's request to supply ammunition to a local Marine artillery battery for a 21-gun salute (it was no state visit). Then the harassed protocol men asked the Navy for help. The Navy designated a Miami-docked destroyer to boom the salute, but the ship's captain discovered that he had no blank ammunition for his five-inchers.

When the royal couple at last winged in from Sun Valley on a U.S. military transport plane, they were whisked to the Sans Souci in the Shah's $23,000 robin's-egg blue Rolls-Royce. As the Shah's personal colors and the Iranian flag were pompously run up above the hotel, the Navy destroyer, some ten miles beyond the Shah's earshot, popped off 21 of the small Y-gun cartridges ordinarily used to flip depth charges overboard. The explosions reverberated across the bay like slightly damp cherry bombs. The Shah and Soraya dodged through a mob of some 3,000, and gained the lobby. A hotel pressagent, motioning officiously, shouted: "Your Majesty, are Your Majesty and Her Majesty ready now?"

That night, as the Shah slept more soundly than the unhappy State Department men, the protocol-smashing Sans Souci was planning a new surprise for His Majesty. It was a special improvisation by the hotel's dancing teacher: the rug-cutting "Shah Mambo."

In a jet flight off the Southern California coast, Vice Admiral Harold M. Martin, 58, commander of the Pacific Fleet's air forces, became the Navy's fastest brass. Soon after climbing into a North American TF-86 with a test pilot, crag-faced "Beauty" Martin took over the controls, zipped through the sonic barrier at a 40,000-ft. altitude, hung up a red-hot speed record for admirals: 800 m.p.h.

At Manhattan's Hotel Pierre, former Metropolitan Opera Soprano Marguerite Piazza gave the supper-club customers "a full-course dinner" of singing -- from the Un Bel D`i aria in Puccini's Madame Butterfly to the raucously wild Dixieland of When the Saints Go Marching In. But the highlight of her act was a titillating -- though respectable -- costume change in midstage (it was done in a shoulder-height brocade enclosure). Shapely Marguerite switched from a flouncy gown to a skintight outfit with a slit skirt, then shook a pretty leg while a derby-topped quintet blared out in ragtime.

In Paris, famed Dressmaker Christian ("the Flat Look") Dior uttered some of the startling pronunciamentos that annually foreshadow the showing of his new spring fashions. After chiding American women for being "too well groomed," he warned all women to beware of exposing certain portions of their anatomy. Of bones: "Never a pretty sight." Of elbows : Sleeves should stop above or below them, but never just at them. Of knees: "The ugliest spot in a woman's anatomy . . . should never be shown."

At his hospital camp in the village of Lambarene in French Equatorial Africa, bells greeted Dr. Albert Schweitzer as he came to the door of his hut one morning to find some 500 people singing and bearing flowers for him. It was his 80th birthday. All over the world, as the day passed, celebrations and ceremonies honored the famed medical missionary, winner of the 1952 Nobel Peace Prize, who left Europe in 1905 to tend the bodies and souls of African natives. More than $20,000 in contributions rolled in from the U.S. alone. But Albert Schweitzer felt his years; he could not even find strength to broadcast a birthday message to Eu rope. "How I regret all this fuss," he murmured. "How tired I am."

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