“I have received it,” Hans Castorp weightily affirmed. “Just the other day. Here it is,” and he felt for it in his inner breast pocket.

“Ah, you carry it in a case. Like a certificate, as it were⁠—a sort of membership card. Very good. Let me see it.” And Herr Settembrini held it against the light, between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand; a little glass plate framed in strips of black paper. The gesture was a common one up here, one often saw it. His face, with the black almond-shaped eyes, displayed a slight grimace as he did so, but whether this happened in the effort to see more clearly or for other causes, he did not permit it to appear.

“Yes, yes,” he said, after a while. “Here is your identity card. Thanks very much,” and he handed the plate back to Hans Castorp over his shoulder, without looking.

“Did you see the strands?” asked Hans Castorp. “And the nodules?”