Names make news. Last week these names made this news:
Dominican Playboy Porfirio ("I just try to make women happy") Rubirosa, 47, seemed afflicted by true love. In his legal partnerships so far, Rubirosa has always poorly concealed the practical methods that leavened his romantic madness.
In his previous altar junkets he got: the boss's daughter (No. i was Flor de Oro Trujillo, golden flower of the Dominican dictator), glamour and oodles of connections (No. 2 was French Cinemactress Danielle Darrieux), and the good life (No. 3 and No. 4: Heiresses Doris Duke and Barbara Hutton). No. s-to-be can give him none of these things, but moonstruck Rubirosa, aching to marry her "probably within one month," husked that his fiancee, fast-rising Paris Actress Odile (Fabien) Rodin, 19,* is "pretty, intelligent, gracious and good."
Heckled by creditors, Greece's hard-pressed (at $250,000 a year) King Paul was voted a sympathetic raise to a $383,333 annual stipend. Then, however, he learned that some parliamentary Deputies had opposed the increase. He promptly turned it down, proudly vowed to cut expenses by making "radical changes in palace life."
The music world's most talented and tempestuous diva, Manhattan-born Soprano Maria Meneghini Callas, winged from Italy to touch native soil for the first time since she held eight outnumbered process servers to a draw in a Chicago Civic Opera House fracas (TIME, Nov. 21). Sued for $300,000 by a Manhattan attorney who keeps on claiming that she owes him 10% of her earnings since he launched her in 1947 (when she scaled almost 200 Ibs.), slim (5 ft. 7 in., 132 Ibs.) Maria will make her Metropolitan Opera debut late this month. No process servers greeted her at New York's Idlewild Airport, and Prima Donna Callas fell happily into the arms of her papa, a Bronx pharmacist.
As the fog began closing in, Britain embarked on an autumn grousing season, picked as its first target a member of the royal family. The victim: bonnie Prince Charles, 7, fresh back in Buckingham Palace after a long Scottish holiday. The question, quickly debated by irritable newspaper readers: Assuming that Charles has a brow, is it high, middle or low? Noting that on his return "the prince's hair was even closer to his eyebrows than usual," London's more or less crewcut Daily Express pressed the attack with a monumental grouse: "Not one photograph of him has ever revealed his forehead!" The trail led to an elegant tonsorial emporium called Trumper's, which fortnightly dispatches a barber named Crisp to the palace to shear Charles (price of the haircut: 62¢). What manner of brow lurks beneath the Prince's plunging forelock? "We never," announced Trumper's aloofly, "discuss the heir's hair."