bed, then I feel something pinching my leg, look under the bed and pull another of them out from under it. I don't know why it is they bother me like this, I expect you've just seen that I do nothing to encourage them to come near me. And they make it hard for me to do my work too, of course. If I didn't get this studio for nothing I'd have moved out a long time ago.” Just then, a little voice, tender and anxious, called out from under the door, “Titorelli, can we come in now?” “No,” answered the painter.

“Not even just me, by myself?” the voice asked again. “Not even just you,” said the painter, as he went to the door and locked it.

Meanwhile, K. had been looking round the room, if it had not been pointed out it would never have