“No,” he said, “I am not saying they are alike; you’re getting muddled. I only mean that you’ve a very nasty cold. I can hear it in your voice, and you ought to go to bed, to cut it short, if you mean to go home next week. But if you don’t want to⁠—I mean go to bed⁠—why, don’t. I am not prescribing for you. Anyhow, let’s go to breakfast. Make haste, we are late already.”

“Right-oh!” said Hans Castorp, and flung off his covers. He went into his room to run the brush over his hair, and Joachim looked again at the thermometer on the washhand-stand. Hans Castorp watched him. They went down, silently, and took their places in the dining-room, which, as always at this hour, shimmered white with milk.

The dwarf waitress brought Hans Castorp his Kulmbacher beer, as usual, but he put on a long face and waved it away. He would drink no beer today; he would drink nothing at all, or at most a swallow of water. The attention of his tablemates was attracted: they wanted to know the cause of his caprice. Hans Castorp said carelessly that he had a little fever⁠—really minimal: 99.6°.