They guarded themselves with a care that threw around the manner of each a certain reserve which was often felt by the other as coldness.

To both this was, in a degree, painful.

There was tender love in their hearts, but it was overshadowed by self-will and false ideas of independence on the one side, and by a brooding spirit of accusation and unaccustomed restraint on the other.

Many times, each day of their lives, did words and sentiments, just about to be uttered by Hartley Emerson, die unspoken, lest in them something might appear which would stir the quick feelings of Irene into antagonism.
There was no guarantee of happiness in such a state of things.
Mutual forbearance existed, not from self-discipline and tender love, but from fear of consequences.

They were burnt children, and dreaded, as well they might, the fire.
With little change in their relations to each other, and few events worthy of notice, a year went by.