The conversation did not run upon their home below, there was no reference to family or personal, business or city affairs, nor yet to the firm of Tunder and Wilms, Shipbuilders, Smelters, and Machinists, who were still waiting for their apprentice⁠—though it was likely they had too much else to do to be aware that they were waiting. James Tienappel had touched, of course, on these topics, during their drive and after, but they had fallen flat; no one had picked them up. They had bounded off, as it were, from Hans Castorp’s serene, unfeigned, unmistakable sangfroid, which was like a suit of armour; like his indifference to the chill of that autumn evening, like his little phrase “We don’t feel the cold.” This air of his may have been the reason why his uncle looked at him so fixedly. They spoke of the Oberin and the doctors, of Dr.