Hans Castorp⁠—such was the young man’s name⁠—sat alone in his little grey-upholstered compartment, with his alligator-skin handbag, a present from his uncle and guardian, Consul Tienappel⁠—let us get the introductions over with at once⁠—his travelling-rug, and his winter overcoat swinging on its hook. The window was down, the afternoon grew cool, and he, a tender product of the sheltered life, had turned up the collar of his fashionably cut, silklined summer overcoat. Near him on the seat lay a paper-bound volume entitled Ocean Steamships ; earlier in the journey he had studied it off and on, but now it lay neglected, and the breath of the panting engine, streaming in, defiled its cover with particles of soot.