On their right as they entered, between the main door and the inner one, was the porter’s lodge. An official of the French type, in the grey livery of the man at the station, was sitting at the telephone, reading the newspaper. He came out and led them through the well-lighted halls, on the left of which lay the reception-rooms. Hans Castorp peered in as he passed, but they were empty. Where, then, were the guests, he asked, and his cousin answered: “In the rest-cure. I had leave tonight to go out and meet you. Otherwise I am always up in my balcony, after supper.”
Hans Castorp came near bursting out again. “What! You lie out on your balcony at night, in the damp?” he asked, his voice shaking.
“Yes, that is the rule. From eight to ten. But come and see your room now, and get a wash.”
They entered the lift—it was an electric one, worked by the Frenchman. As they went up, Hans Castorp wiped his eyes.