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

Hollywood's Grace Kelly and Monaco's Prince Rainier III announced that they will be married twice (in civil and Roman Catholic ceremonies) during a four-day fete, slated for an April 18th opening gun in Monaco. Among all sorts of folks on the guest list: hot-trumpeting Bandleader Louis ("Satchmo") Armstrong, who announced that he and his cats will jive up one of the receptions.

In Manhattan, tweedy Poet W. H. Auden, 48, rose to thank the nation's publishers and bookdealers for bestowing a National Book Award on his sacred and profane volume, The Shield of Achilles. Said he: "What, in the name of profit, dear foolish publishers, kind unworldly booksellers, am I doing here? . . . You will never make enough [out of me] to pay the wages of one incompetent typist . . . For your award . . . my thanks; for the dollars I shall never bring you, my apologies!"

High-strung Cinemactress Judy (A Star Is Born) Garland, two days after suing Movie Producer Sid (A Star Is Born) Luff for divorce (TIME, Feb. 13), cooled off, called the calling-off off. Breaking the news to the world in time-honored Hollywood fashion, Judy rang up Veteran Gossipist Louella O. Parsons, confided that Luft was not guilty of "extreme mental cruelty" as charged, added: "I thought something that wasn't true."

After getting her due at Buckingham Palace, Britain's top Ballerina Margot Fonteyn, all smiles, curtsied and pirouetted out to display proof of her honor, the medal of a Dame Commander of the Order of the British Empire, the title conferred on her in Queen Elizabeth II's New Year's Honors List.

After wayward young (20) Mail-Order Heir Montgomery Ward Thorne mysteriously died in a shabby Chicago apartment (TIME, July 26, 1954) amid the sordid evidence of a sex-and-drug orgy, his will, drawn up only nine days before his death, soon sparked a bitter court battle. It left only a quarter of his $1,800,000 estate to his mother and an aunt, three-quarters to his pretty fiancee, Maureen Ragen, and her mother. Last week a Chicago court threw out the will on the ground that fear-ridden Thorne was not legally competent when he made it. The court-approved settlement of his estate: $350,000 to the Ragens, the balance to Thome's mother. Still a mystery, heightened by bungling police work and slapdash coroner's methods: What--possibly who--killed Monty Thorne?

With his wife at the wheel of their car, Britain's brittle Earl Attlee, 73, went on to a dinner in London after a collision. Later, X rays showed why Attlee did not enjoy the party: two broken ribs.

At a church meeting in home town Portland, Ore., Dr. Paul S. Wright, 60, Moderator of the Presbyterian Church in the U.S.A., confided to assembled elders that he will marry Christian Education Worker Mary McDowell, 27, in June. A December and May romance? Said Widower Wright: "You can't tell the split second you fall in love . . . We decided through earnest prayer to get married."

During a snowy stroll on the grounds of Ottawa's Government House, Britain's visiting Prime Minister Sir Anthony Eden playfully gave a sky ride to his godchild, four-year-old Susan Massey. Their audience was Susan's doting grandpa, Canada's Cossack-hatted Governor General Vincent Massey, Britain's Foreign Minister Selwyn Lloyd and Massey's golden retriever, jealously gnawing his master's mitt.

In My Friend Ike, published this week (Frederick Fell; $3.50), Marty Snyder, longtime Army mess sergeant to President Eisenhower and now a frozen-turkey packager, discloses how Ike happened to take up the art of cookery. Eisenhower's wartime confidence to Author Snyder: "I've been a mess sergeant since the day I got married. My wife doesn't like to cook, so I did it all, and the only way I could get the family away from a diet of meat and potatoes was to make a hobby of cooking."

Britain's Princess Margaret sat in a BBC television-studio control room, tapping her foot to ditties presented on the Tin Pan Alley show. Suddenly, as the chorus lustily bawled the gruesome lyrics of Lizzie Borden, a isong based on the famous Fall River, Mass, doubleheader murder in 1892,* Margaret, heard only by the engineers, merrily joined in the warbling, showed that she knew all the words. Sample lines: "Oh, you can't chop your momma up in Massachusetts--and then just blame the damage on the mice." Britain's press chronicled the incident. Lizzie soared once more to posthumous fame as a popular heroine. Up went sales of the song's sheet music and records. As a supreme tribute to Lizzie's new popularity, London's Evening News devoted three installments to the grisly murders.

* A jury, not convinced that a Sunday school teacher could murder her father and stepmother with an ax, acquitted Lizzie, who peacefully passed to her reward 34 years later in 1927.

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