And, after all, John Egerton, good fellow as he was, would leave but a tiny gap in the world. What were his claims on life? What had he to give to mankind? A single man, parents dead, an obscure Civil Servant, at five hundred a year⁠—a mere machine, incapable of creation, easily replaced, perhaps not even missed. What was he worth to the world beside the great Stephen Byrne? Supposing they both died now, how would their obituary notices compare? John’s⁠—but John would not have one; his death would be announced on the front page of the newspapers. But about himself there would be half-columns. He knew what they would say: “Tragic death of a young poet still in his prime⁠ ⁠… Keats⁠ ⁠… unquestionable stamp of genius⁠ ⁠… a loss that cannot be measured⁠ ⁠… best work still unwritten⁠ ⁠… engaged, we understand⁠ ⁠… new poem⁠ ⁠… would have set the seal⁠ ⁠…” and so on.