"Gimme!" she said fiercely.

"Trollop!" exclaimed Peter.

The glory of her flamed in him. With magnificent nonchalance, he grasped the frail net that shrouded her shoulders, ripped it to shreds, and cocked an appraising eye at the pale, smooth skin. Rhythm beat in their ears. The surf surged and ebbed.

"Love me, Peter?" whispered Judy . . .

A question of about the same importance now confronts the world of letters: Who wrote the novel that contains this gooey hooey? Jean Harlow wrote it, with the help of an M-G-M journeyman. Completed before Harlow's death, the manuscript has been hidden away for the past 32 years. Published last week in the midst of a harrowing Harlow revival, Today Is Tonight (Grove Press; $5) reads like the first crude script of a Harlow movie--happy but sappy, and crammed with such insights as: "Funny that a man should want you tanned all over." An earnest preface suggests that the girl who brought back the bosom also had a brain, but on the textual evidence, it can be said that she was at most a size 32A in the literary department.

In a corner of Manhattan's Shepheard's discotheque, on the dance floor of the Waldorf ballroom, gradually more in public view, New York City's Widower Mayor Robert Wagner, 55, had been squiring his deputy's sister, blonde, socially registered Barbara Cavanagh, 36. Last May, in declaring himself out of the running for reelection, the mayor added pointedly: "I have some obligations to myself too." Now it's official: Barbara and Bob will be married by Francis Cardinal Spellman on July 26 in a private chapel in the cardinal's residence. Barbara, some friends report, feels that New York City is a great place to visit and all that, but would like to live elsewhere. The newest buzz is that Bob may oblige his bride by running for Governor Nelson Rockefeller's house in Albany next year.

Why not organize a trade union for prostitutes? The idea seemed stunning in 1907, when trade-unionism was new and the oldest profession still flourishing. Actress Florence Farr got to wondering what sort of person would be best suited to run such an organization, and she put the question to just the right man: Playwright George Bernard Shaw, who himself had exhibited a fatherly concern for the girls in Mrs. Warren's Profession. Well, mused Shaw in his reply, "the project seems pretty Utopian." For one thing, he wrote, the people engaged in the trade "are the loudest detractors of it," while its "protectors" are "of extraordinarily good character." But perhaps the union job "could be done by a very energetic, muscular and violent woman, with the devotion of a saint and the arbitrariness and executive power of a prizefighter." No one fitting that description appeared on the scene, and the idea of an International Sisterhood of Doxies died--but Shaw's letter survived, was auctioned off last week in London's decorous Sotheby & Co. to a New York bookdealer for $168.

Can a British nobleman wed to a charming princess find happiness on a motorcycle? He tried it last week on the fairy-tale Isle of Man, but he did not quite achieve it. On the winding 371-mile Tourist Trophy Motorcycle Race course, Lord Snowdon, 35, done up in a black leather outfit, crash helmet and steel-tipped boots, gunned his little Triumph 500 c.c. around the circuit like a latter-day Zorro. It was his first time on a cycle since his Cambridge days 12 years ago, and try as he would, Tony never got up beyond 90 m.p.h., something less than a track record. Afterward someone asked his wife Margaret, who had come out to Man to preside at the opening of the Manx Tynwald (Parliament), if she'd been worried about Tony. No, she smiled, "but I would have been if I had known what speed he was going to do."

"Au secours!" cried Artist Bernard Buffet, 37. "He is destroying my lovely icebox!" Back in 1958, Buffet had decorated the whole refrigerator--front, top and sides--with a brittle angular still life of fish and other goodies for a Paris art show called "The Nobility of the Everyday Object." The object was sold for $2,200 at a charity auction, and the Danish purchaser, an obscure painter named Haag Fersing, began breaking it down to sell individual panels as "paintings on metal by Bernard Buffet." That was too much for Bernard, who got an injunction preventing Fersing from tampering with the ice-cubist masterpiece. Now Fersing will just have to eat off his Buffet or sell it whole.

It was summer investiture time at Buckingham Palace, and as five solemn yeomen of the guard preceded Queen Elizabeth II, 39, into the State Ballroom, scarlet-coated musicians embarked upon the prelude to the august occasion with a stirring rendition of that regal air, Heigh-Ho, from Walt Disney's Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. Then Her Majesty conferred knighthoods and other ancient honors of the kingdom on 174 subjects while the band played on--and on and on. Included in the Little Knight Music: Dancing in the Dark, I Won't Dance, You're Not Sick, You're Just in Love, The Lady Is a Tramp. At the end, the dour yeomen quickstepped out to Whistle While You Work. God Save the Queen.

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