Then, for the first time, I saw the dilemma. How, indeed, could Leah know? The same woman, the same clothes—but yet, how different! "Have you no sign?" I asked. "Haven't you ever arranged it with Leah so that she can tell?"
"Oh, not for a case like this. It has never been necessary. You see, the change always comes at night, at least always during sleep, so that when I wake up she can tell right off, by asking me what I'll have for breakfast. We've arranged it so that I shall always give a fanciful reply, and let her give an obvious commonplace one. But now, Leah daren't come in, for she knows that if I should happen to be 'the other one,' there'll be the same terrible something that happened before—a quarrel, or worse."
"Still, there are some apparent differences. You dress differently, it seems to me. You usually wear white. Won't Leah know by her experience of you both?"
"Oh, no; you can't tell. She's so whimsical—sometimes she'll do one thing, and sometimes another, like a child. You can't depend on her. She's tricky, too."
"I could tell, I'm sure—by your eyes. Hers are darker, and the pupils are dilated, aren't they, usually?"
"Yes—but Leah daren't come near enough for that, don't you see? Oh, she must be in agony, poor girl! But how do I know? She may be dead!"
"You forget that she has written to me since leaving."
"Oh, yes—that is a relief. But I may have hurt her."
"Oh, Joy! Don't say you could have—it was not you, it was Edna."
"Well, how can I tell whether or not I'm responsible?"