“Sit down, sit down. No formalities with a simple man like me. Out of place too, you being my patients, both of you. Not necessary. No objection to the status quo,” and he remained standing before them, holding the cigar between the index and middle fingers of his great right hand.

“How’s your cabbage-leaf, Castorp? Let me see, I’m a connoisseur. That’s a good ash⁠—what sort of brown beauty have you there?”

“Maria Mancini, Postre de Banquett , Bremen, Herr Hofrat. Costs little or nothing, nineteen pfennigs in plain colours⁠—but a bouquet you don’t often come across at the price. Sumatra-Havana wrapper, as you see. I am very wedded to them. It is a medium mixture, very fragrant, but cool on the tongue. Suits it to leave the ash long, I don’t knock it off more than a couple of times. She has her whims, of course, has Maria; but the inspection must be very thorough, for she doesn’t vary much, and draws perfectly even. May I offer you one?”