Our Lady of Darkness by Bernard Capes — Read

Before -- hurrying like a weaponless man through sinister thickets -- Ned had come to within a mile of Liége, the memory of the rather grim comedy he had been forced to play a part in was tickling him under the ribs in provocative fashion. That his vanity -- no unreasonable quantity -- should have received, as it were, in a breath a kiss so resounding, a buffet so swingeing, set his very soul of risibility bubbling and dancing like champagne.

"And ought I to be gratified or offended," he thought, "that I am chosen the flame about which these moths circle? But it is all one to such insects whether it be wax or rushlight, so long as it burns. That's where I missed fire, so to speak. The flutter of their poor little feverish wings put me out. I am a cold taper, I fancy. I have never yet felt the draught that would blow me into a roar. What breath is wasted upon me, in good truth!"