The blind man lying in the ferns broke out into a laugh, a ringing young laugh, without irony, without bitterness.
It was the first time he had laughed since ... since his blindness.
HATS
My attention was first attracted to him by the ring of his voice as he answered the question a woman near me put to him, amiably trying to start a conversation: "And may I ask, Mr. Williams, what are you in France for, Red Cross, or Y.M.C.A., or perhaps reconstruction work? I'm refugees, myself. It's always interesting to know other people's specialties. You often have so much in common. The only branches I don't know anything about are orphans and the blind."
To this the distinguished-looking, gray-haired man responded gravely, "Madame, I am in France for hats."
"Hats!" exclaimed the war-worker.
"Hats," he reaffirmed quietly.
She looked at him wildly and moved to another part of the room towards a recognizably tagged young woman in a gray uniform.
The timbre of his voice struck curiously on my ear. I cannot express its quality other than to say it made the voices of the rest of us sound like those of college professors and school-teachers; and I don't pretend to know exactly what I mean by that.