“Go on,” said his mother wearily.
He shook his head.
“Go on. Nothing that you say can distress me now. I am hardened.”
“I had meant to tell you the rest, but I cannot: I know that I cannot: good-bye.”
Vashti stood irresolute. All her nerves were tingling with his blasphemies. But she was also inquisitive.
“This is unfair,” she complained. “You have called me across the world to hear your story, and hear it I will. Tell me—as briefly as possible, for this is a disastrous waste of time—tell me how you returned to civilisation.”
“Oh—that!” he said, starting. “You would like to hear about civilisation. Certainly. Had I got to where my respirator fell down?”
“No—but I understand everything now. You put on your respirator, and managed to walk along the surface of the earth to a vomitory, and there your conduct was reported to the Central Committee.”
“By no means.”
He passed his hand over his forehead, as if dispelling some strong impression. Then, resuming his narrative, he warmed to it again.