“Very nice man,” repeated Hans Castorp. “He has such a flow of words I enjoyed listening to him. ‘Quicksilver cigar’ was capital, I got it at once.⁠—But I’ll just light up a real one,” he said, pausing, “I can’t hold out any longer. I haven’t had a proper smoke since yesterday after luncheon. Excuse me a minute.” He opened his automobile-leather case, with its silver monogram, and drew out a Maria Mancini, a beautiful specimen of the first layer, flattened on one side as he particularly liked it; he cut off the tip slantingly with a sharp little tool he wore on his watch-chain, then, striking a tiny flame with his pocket apparatus, puffed with concentration at the long, blunt-ended cigar until it was alight. “There!” he said. “Now, as far as I’m concerned, we can get on with the exercise. You don’t smoke⁠—out of sheer doggedness, of course.”

“I never do smoke,” answered Joachim; “why should I begin up here?”

“I don’t understand it,” Hans Castorp said. “I never can understand how anybody can not