forward so that it now looked like neither the God of Justice nor the God of Victory, it seemed now, rather, to be a perfect depiction of the God of the Hunt. K. found the painter's work more engrossing than he had wanted; but finally he reproached himself for staying so long without having done anything relevant to his own affair. “What's the name of this judge?” he asked suddenly.

“I'm not allowed to tell you that,” the painter answered. He was bent deeply over the picture and clearly neglecting his guest who, at first, he had received with such care. K. took this to be just a foible of the painter's, and it irritated him as it made him lose time. “I take it you must be a trustee of the court,” he said. The painter immediately put his crayons down, stood upright, rubbed his hands