Moreover, if, after reaching home, he found himself at any time in want
of aid, a letter from him would be sure of a reply.
The next morning came.
"Bartleby," said I, gently calling to him behind his screen.
No reply.
"Bartleby," said I, in a still gentler tone, "come here; I am not going
to ask you to do any thing you would prefer not to do--I simply wish to
speak to you."
Upon this he noiselessly slid into view.
"Will you tell me, Bartleby, where you were born?"
"I would prefer not to."
"Will you tell me _any thing_ about yourself?"
"I would prefer not to."
"But what reasonable objection can you have to speak to me? I feel
friendly towards you."
He did not look at me while I spoke, but kept his glance fixed upon my
bust of Cicero, which as I then sat, was directly behind me, some six
inches above my head.
"What is your answer, Bartleby?" said I, after waiting a considerable
time for a reply, during which his countenance remained immovable, only
there was the faintest conceivable tremor of the white attenuated mouth.
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