THEY WENT BACK TO THE YMCA.

Jack had a nap while the girl read her book, then they took the cat and went out to grab a bite in a restaurant on Yonge Street. The girl was still wearing her boy’s getup.

The man didn’t talk very much.

“Tired?” asked the girl.

“A little,” he said. “What about you?”

“I’m all right. And the cat’s just fine, too.”

She had ordered a club sandwich and a Coke, and she was feeding pieces of chicken to the cat, which was on her lap. The man was absently munching a hamburger and drinking a glass of milk.

“You don’t eat very much,” she said. “Are you worried about Théo because of the police record?”

“Tell me about Etienne Brûlé,” he said by way of reply. “Does the author of your book think he was a bum?”

There was some anger in his voice, as well as a mixture of sorrow and fatigue, and the girl did not reply at once. She took the book from her canvas bag and started leisurely turning the pages.

“The author doesn’t have a very high opinion of him,” she began cautiously.

“Why? What did he do?”

“He . . . You know, when the Kirke brothers attacked Quebec in 1629 . . .”

“Yes. Then what?”

“He was the one who guided the English expedition on the St. Lawrence. He betrayed his country.”

“That’s a good start! And what else is he accused of?”

“He’s reproached for the way he behaved with the Indians. The Indian women. He was always changing wives. The author says . . . Hold on. Oh, yes, here it is: ‘He changed Indian wives as rapidly and as frequently as he changed his horizons in his restless roaming across the land.’”

“So what?” said the man.

“And Champlain says of him: ‘This man was known to be highly licentious and much given to women.’”

“Champlain was very scrupulous, like everyone else at the time, don’t you think?”

“Very likely,” she said.

“And the Indians’ sexual practices were more liberal than the whites’, weren’t they?”

“Yes. Obviously.”

“As far as sex is concerned,” he went on, “I think you should be allowed to do anything as long as you respect the other person’s freedom.”

“That’s what I think, too,” said the girl. “But in the case of Etienne Brûlé . . .”

She gave the cat a piece of chicken.

“ . . . something happened, no one knows exactly what, but he did something that ran counter to the customs of the tribe he was living with, and the Indians . . . They ran out of patience and put him to death.”

“Good God!” said Jack.

He looked stunned, like a man who has just received bad news about someone close to him.

“I’m so sorry,” said the girl.

The man could think of nothing to say and shrugged. They went on eating in silence. When they had finished, the girl asked, “May I pretend to be a great psychologist?”