The Cardinal Moth by Fred M. White — Read

Frobisher's highly sensitive nature demanded a flower as a little something to soothe his nerves. He passed into the conservatory where the Cardinal Moth was flaming overhead, he climbed like an over-dressed monkey up the extending ladder, and broke off a spray of the blooms. He patted them gently as he fixed the cluster in the silk lapel of his coat. Hafid looked in and announced that the car was ready. Hafid's face was white and set like that of a drug victim. Frobisher was at his most brilliant and best as the car flashed away. Presently the scene changed from the hot air and dusty glare of the streets, to green lawns and old trees and the soft music of a band of some colour and doubtful Hungarian origin. But there was the clear flow and the throbbing melody of it, and Frobisher's gloved hand beat gently to time. There were little knots of kaleidoscope colours, graceful and harmonious in graceful shades and the emerald green for a background.

Here, too, was the Duchess with a swift, pecky smile for each guest, as if she had been carelessly wound up for the occasion, and something had gone wrong with the spring.