daily.
"It is true," the poet said, at length, "that I have played no heroic
part. And I don't question, Kathleen, that I am all you think me. Yet,
such as I am, I love you. And such as I am, you love me, and it is I
that you are going to marry, and not that Woods person."
"He's worth ten of you!" she cried, scornfully.
"Twenty of me, perhaps," Mr. Kennaston assented, "but that isn't the
question. You don't love him, Kathleen. You are about to marry him for
his money. You are about to do what I thought to do yesterday. But you
won't, Kathleen. You know that I need you, my dear, and--unreasonably