d under the new as under a mask; but something like
absorption by degrees obliterated the outlines of Endicott and developed
the Dillon. Daily he noticed the new features which sprang into sight
between sunrise and sunrise. It was not only the fashion of dress, of
body, and of speech, which mimics may adopt; but also a change of
countenance, a turn of mind which remained permanent, change of gesture,
a deeper color of skin, greater decision in movement; in fact, so many
and so minute mutations that he could not recall one-tenth the number.
Endicott for instance had possessed an eloquent, lustrous, round eye,
with an expression delightfully indolent; in Dillon the roundness and
indolence gave way to a malicious wrinkle at the outside corners, which
gave his glance a touch of bitterness. Endicott had been gracefully slow
in his movement; Dillon was nervous and alert. A fascination of terror
held Monsignor as Arthur Dillon grew like his namesake more and more.
Out of what depths had this new personality been conjured up? What would
be the end of it? He said to himself that a single incident, the death
of Sonia, would be enough to destroy on the instant this Dillon and
resurrect the Endicott. Still he was not sure, and the longer this
terrible process continued the less likely a change back to the normal.

Morbid introspection had become a part of the young man's pain. The
study of the changes in himself proved more pleasant than painful. His
mind swung between bitter depression, and warm, natural joy. His moments
of deepest joy were coincident with an interesting condition of mind. On
certain days he completely forgot the Endicott and became the Dillon
almost perfectly. Then he no longer acted a part, but was absorbed in
it. Most of the time he was Endicott playing the role of Dillon, without
effort and with much pleasure, indeed, but still an actor. When memory
and grief fled from him together, as on St. Patrick's Day, his new
personality dominated each instant of consciousness, and banished
thought of the old. Then a new spirit rose in him; not merely a feeling
of relief from pain, but a positive influence which led him to do
surprising and audacious things, like the speech at the banquet. It was
a divine forgetfulness, which he prayed might be continuous. He loved to
think that some years of his life would see the new personality in full
possession of him, while the old would be but a feeble memory, a mere
dream of an im