It was at the end of July when Hans Castorp, lying in his balcony, ran through this dispatch, then read it, and read it again. He nodded as he did so, not with his head but with his whole torso, and said between his teeth: “ Si, si, si ,” like Herr Settembrini. “Joachim is coming back!” ran through him like tidings of great joy. But he grew subdued at once, on the thought “H’m, this is