"I have given up copying," he answered, and slid aside.

He remained as ever, a fixture in my chamber. Nay--if that were
possible--he became still more of a fixture than before. What was to be
done? He would do nothing in the office: why should he stay there? In
plain fact, he had now become a millstone to me, not only useless as a
necklace, but afflictive to bear. Yet I was sorry for him. I speak
less than truth when I say that, on his own account, he occasioned me
uneasiness. If he would but have named a single relative or friend, I
would instantly have written, and urged their taking the poor fellow
away to some convenient retreat. But he seemed alone, absolutely alone
in the universe. A bit of wreck in the mid Atlantic. At length,
necessities connected with my business tyrannized over all other
considerations. Decently as I could, I told Bartleby that in six days'
time he must unconditionally leave the office. I warned him to take
measures, in the interval, for procuring some other abode. I offered to
assist him in this endeavor, if he himself would but take the first step
towards a removal. "And when you finally quit me, Bartleby," added I,
"I shall see that you go not away entirely unprovided. Six days from
this hour, remember."

At the expiration of that period, I peeped behind the screen, and lo!
Bartleby was there.

I buttoned up my coat, balanced myself; advanced slowly towards him,
touched his shoulder, and said, "The time has come; you must quit this
place; I am sorry for you; here is money; but you must go."

"I would prefer not," he replied, with his back still towards me.