Back in New York that April, the amitié littéraire continued: Shirley sent Francis a clipping from Housman about the bodily ground of poetry, “a shiver down the spine … constriction of the throat and a precipitation of water to the eyes”; they went to dinner and to the theatre; and Francis continued to see Margaret. In April he drove Shirley to Ossining, where they had lunch with the Cheevers. Muriel continued to be full of hope about their prospects, but she also raised questions:

Surely, dear Shirlers, there is a very deep feeling floating around between you and Francis and that is something indestructible—that is, if the feelings are loving ones, as they are. I don’t know what or how to think of all you tell me, and perhaps by now developments have happened. You know, I can’t help feeling (but I have a personal bias in this respect) that you might consider asking him whether the “other girl” is male or female. Perhaps this is an absurd idea—forgive it, if so. I can only judge by my poor wee self—how I go falling for that type, time and again, and never, really, for the wholehearted male! If this is too far-fetched and you are sufficiently in love to cope with the conflict, there’s nothing like a real love affair to resolve the problem—any problem—tho’ it gives rise to others. My heart and thoughts are with you, Shirlers dear. All that matters is that you are full of possibilities in life and work. I’m enormously pleased to hear that the novel’s going well, it will be a famous one, born of suffering as the best are—but not too much pain—that’s fatal.